


Keeping Score

by Elya_Rho



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batbrothers (DCU), Brothers, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Competition, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elya_Rho/pseuds/Elya_Rho
Summary: Brothers can turn anything into a competition … including saving each other's lives.
Comments: 312
Kudos: 917





	1. Dick is in over his head ...

Dick managed a gasping breath before he was plunged beneath the surface of the icy water once more. Struggling fiercely with the net that imprisoned him, he tried desperately to pull himself higher in the water even as the heavy rope threatened to drag him down. His hands were tied in front of him, next to useless in his attempts to free himself, and his head was throbbing mercilessly from where he had been struck, making it incredibly difficult to hold his breath.

The shivers that plagued him were relentless, wracking his body with painful spasms that sapped his strength far quicker than Dick would have thought possible. He'd been in the water for far too long already, and he was feeling the effects.

He counted out the seconds, waiting anxiously for the wave to crest over him so he would be able to draw another lungful of air. He could only hope the cable tethering him to the large fishing trawler would hold and that Jason would manage to raise the net before Dick either froze to death or drowned.

And Jason was certainly taking his time subduing their enemies on the boat.

The wave finally passed and Dick sucked in air, hoping it would be enough. He could hear the sound of gunfire from the deck of the trawler. Jason was clearly having difficulty with the situation, but there was nothing Dick could do to help him.

He was underwater again, with the rough waves slamming him against the hull of the boat. If he survived, Dick was going to be one giant bruise. The odds of surviving weren't looking all that great at the moment, though.

It wasn't supposed to be like this! It was just a group of regular smugglers, not one of Batman's rogues! Dick wasn't even certain how they had managed to get the drop on him; all he knew was that by the time he had regained enough of his senses to realize the trouble he was in, he was already tied up and dangling over the ocean in a net - a quick and easy way to dispose of one of Gotham's heroes.

Luckily for Dick, the smugglers hadn't counted on the presence of Red Hood. Both brothers had climbed aboard just before the boat left dock, leaving Damian to search the nearby warehouses for drugs. Jason had started taking down bad guys at the bridge of the vessel while Dick was handling the deck crew, but then everything had gone downhill.

Dick had, of course, called for help over the comms the moment he realized what was about to happen and Jason hadn't wasted any time coming to the rescue. Unfortunately, by then it had already been too late to stop Dick's sudden plunge into icy water. Under any other circumstance, Dick would have found Jason's shocked exclamation of surprise somewhat humorous, but his rather dire predicament didn't lend itself well to amusement.

No, there was nothing entertaining about his situation at all.

The fact that Dick wasn't currently resting on the bottom was proof enough that Red Hood had somehow managed to stop the net from being entirely submerged, but from the gunshots Dick could hear during his brief moments above water, Jason was being hard-pressed to retract the net completely.

Things were obviously not going well.

Dick gasped another breath and just before the icy water closed over him again, he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

_A motorboat!_

Either reinforcements for Jason, or more smugglers coming to the aid of their colleagues, Dick didn't have long enough at the surface to determine which. Damian had been at the warehouse … was it even possible that he was speeding to the rescue? Dick hadn't been given the opportunity to call for aid until just before his impromptu bath. Could Robin have been able to close the distance between them that quickly even if he'd received Dick's distress call?

It was entirely possible that the motorboat was ferrying more smugglers to the fishing boat and an already crappy day was about to get a whole lot crappier. There wasn't much Dick could do about it, though.

From his underwater vantage point, he watched as the dark bottom of the motorboat came to a stop and something splashed into the water alongside it. Dick could see a figure swimming towards him, approaching quickly, and he tensed.

His lungs burned.

The sea was rough and Dick had precious little opportunity to breathe at the surface. He was starting to get desperate. He was so close to air! He could see the moonlit sky above him, but could do nothing to reach it!

Struggling in the net, Dick gripped the ropes with his bound hands and pushed up with his feet, craning his head towards the surface. It wasn't enough - he wasn't going to make it! The net jerked again as a wave nearly sent him smashing into the trawler's hull. The waves were getting worse.

What was taking so long?

Jason was certainly trying for a dramatic rescue this time and Dick was not impressed.

The next lull in the waves took him by surprise and Dick barely managed to take a quick gulp of air before the water closed over his head once more.

He thought he heard Damian call his name, but he didn't manage to look for him in his brief moment above water and he didn't have the breath to answer his call.

The swimmer was in front of him now and Dick realized with a rush of relief that he hadn't been imagining Damian's voice - Robin was fighting the waves to reach him, heedless of his own safety in the turbulent seas. He scarcely stood out against the dark water, but the glint of something silver was visible to the trapped man.

A rebreather!

Damian slid the device through the netting, angling it as best he could so Dick could grab it in his chattering teeth. Dick almost managed to get a hold of it before another wave sent the net careening into the hull of the ship again. The impact jarred him viciously and the rebreather fell from his frozen lips, either lost in the netting that pinned him, or already on its way to the ocean floor.

_That was not good._

Dick looked up at Damian's water-distorted form above him and saw the exact moment when the boy realized what had happened.

Robin didn't waste a moment. He drew his knife and began sawing at the net, clinging to the ropes as the waves roughly tossed them.

The water was so cold. Dick hated that Damian was experiencing the sharp pain of the icy ocean. He hated that he was the reason for his brother's desperate movements as he gripped the net, working frantically at the thick ropes that held Dick just under the surface, tantalizingly close to the air he was fruitlessly trying to reach.

His face was out of the water for a brief moment and he saw his brother's face clearly for an instant, his expression determined even as his lips turned blue.

Under again, he could see the flash of the blade as Robin cut at the netting. It would take too long. It wouldn’t work. The net was too heavy.

Another breath, he tried to tell Damian to get out of the water before he froze and to go help Jason before he got himself shot, but all he managed was to make himself choke as he swallowed a mouthful of seawater. He could still hear gunfire -

And he was under the water again. Damian's knife worked relentlessly, dangerously close to Dick's face, but the drowning man didn't care. One rope snapped -

They hit the side of the ship's hull again and Damian nearly lost the knife.

Even from Dick's underwater perspective, Damian's shivers were obvious as he worked; their suits could only do so much against being submerged in freezing water for so long. Robin didn't spare a moment to look at Nightwing as his head cleared the surface again and he drew another frantic breath. Dick's lungs ached and he wanted to help Damian - he hated feeling so helpless -

He hated the water. He never wanted to go under again. For all his strength and training, he couldn't free himself and now he was dying, Damian was suffering, Jason was in trouble -

The net jerked again and Dick braced himself, waiting to be hurled against the hull by the violent sea. Instead, he found himself pulled upward from the water with alarming speed, realizing only moments later that the net was being raised. Damian cursed viciously by his ear as he gripped the ropes, still sawing with his blade - still working to free him - even as he was carried upwards with him.

Dick drew in air like he would never be able to breathe again. He saw Damian's frenzied motions slow as the net was lowered to the deck and Dick felt the comforting solid surface beneath himself once more. The heavy ropes dropped on top of him and he could only watch as Jason appeared above him to help Damian pull the netting away from his face.

"You've got to stop doing this," Jason chided from behind his mask, heavy breathing the only indication of just how desperately he'd been fighting. "I'm beginning to think you shouldn't be allowed near water at all seeing as how you haven't quite mastered the whole _not drowning_ thing."

Dick coughed, his chest heaving as he ignored Jason's jibe and looked at Damian. He reached for him, pulling his chilled little brother close as best he could with bound hands. He didn't have any body heat of his own, but he couldn't let the boy freeze.

Damian allowed the awkward embrace as he grabbed Dick's hands, using his knife to make short work of the ropes binding his wrists. Dick's hands were too numb from cold to feel if his circulation was returning, but it was a relief to be free. His gasping breaths slowed as his head stopped spinning. He managed to turn his gaze back to Jason, who had taken the opportunity to remove his helmet and apparently took Dick's renewed attention as a sign to resume his teasing.

"Seriously," Jason continued, kicking a gun away from an unconscious smuggler's body, "didn't I rescue you from drowning last year? Saving you is starting to become a full-time job."

"Saving me twice is hardly a full-time job," Dick protested haltingly, coughing as he spoke.

Jason grinned at that, looking entirely too pleased with himself and Dick sighed inwardly, the throbbing in his head suddenly returning with a vengeance. "Hood . . . "

"I'm just saying, Nightwing, you are terrible when it comes to getting into trouble and needing someone - usually me - to come and save you. How you've survived so long on your own is beyond me."

Dick's retort was cut off with a hiss of pain as Damian pressed a piece of cloth against the wound on his forehead. He'd actually forgotten about that.

Damian let out a scoff as he dabbed at the cut. "I don't think you're much better, Hood."

"Really? I'm hurt." Jason's voice certainly held a hint of wounded pride that Dick didn't believe for a second. From the snort Damian gave in response, the boy clearly wasn't falling for it either.

"You seem to forget that I had to save you after the Penguin incident last month."

"My life was hardly in danger from those stupid birds," Jason protested. "Besides, compared to Nightwing, I'm still coming out ahead."

Dick coughed again. "Didn't know we were keeping score."

"That's understandable - people don't generally keep score when they're behind," Jason conceded graciously, the self-satisfied smirk still gracing his features.

Dick frowned as another shiver tore through him.

Maybe Jason had a point. During his time in Bludhaven, Dick had become used to working alone. He had always gotten out of difficult situations without anyone to back him up. Since re-joining his brothers and Bruce had he gotten complacent? Had he started to rely on them too much? Had he started throwing himself into danger a little more recklessly, lulled into false security by the idea that he had reliable backup?

He glanced across the deck of the trawler, noting the rest of the unconscious crew for the first time. Jason had single-handedly taken out nearly a dozen smugglers and managed to rescue Dick from drowning. Dick, meanwhile, had been taken down by a blow to the head and spent the rest of the fight simply struggling to hold his breath. Not exactly his finest hour.

He shivered on the deck as he considered the situation.

"Enough of that," Jason interrupted Dick's thoughts as though he was entirely aware of what his brother had been thinking. He grabbed the older man by the arm. "Don't worry, you're still a scary and freakishly-bendy vigilante. Up we go."

He tugged at Dick until he was standing and swaying at not-quite the same degree as the wave-tossed vessel.

Damian kicked the netting away from Dick's feet as he staggered in Jason's grip. The boy was shivering as much as Dick, but his eyes were alert as he moved to secure the smugglers.

Through the pounding in his head, Dick's thoughts spun.

He had gotten caught and his brothers could have been killed coming to his rescue. He was the oldest and it was his responsibility to keep them safe. Anything else was completely unacceptable.

He clenched his jaw against the tremors running through him, trying to bring his traitorous body under control.

He was going to have to try harder. This couldn't be allowed to happen again. He couldn't just let himself rely on the others to save him -

"You know, I've probably saved you more times than you've saved me," Damian announced suddenly, pulling Dick from his dark thoughts.

"Dream on, pipsqueak," Jason laughed. "There's no way. I've saved every single one of you enough times that it's almost embarrassing."

"I'm rarely in any actual danger," Damian retorted. "I have the training of both Batman and the League of Assassins."

"Doesn't mean that you weren't stuck in Riddler's little trap that time, remember that?"

Damian scoffed. "I would have freed myself."

Jason nodded patronizingly.

"I would have!" Damian insisted angrily.

"Wanna bet?"

Dick winced at the realization that things were going steadily downhill. He was freezing and exhausted and had no desire to referee a pointless fight between his brothers.

"How would we bet on this?" Damian asked.

"I'll bet that you've needed rescuing far more times than I ever did," Jason replied.

Damian's face scrunched slightly. "I disagree, but I will counter by saying that Red Robin likely required rescuing far more times than _I_ ever have."

"Well, if we're going by the _entire_ family, I think we know who has the longest history of being the boy hostage," Jason countered.

Dick groaned as his brothers both turned to look at him. "Don't drag me into this. My head hurts."

"That may be true," Damian mused, ignoring Dick's protest as he turned back to Jason, "though it hardly seems fair to count prior events against him. After all, we are currently benefiting from the advancements made in response to each of his near-death experiences."

Jason nodded. "I guess that's accurate. I mean, we didn't even have _pants_ when we first started, so there is a definite advantage to being Robin now as opposed to a decade ago."

Dick groaned and let himself sink to the deck again and he leaned against a piece of machinery.

"I propose a new wager," Damian said. "We disregard previous events and only tally life-saving incidents from this point onwards."

"Are we counting how many times someone needs to be saved, or are we counting how many times one of us comes to the rescue?"

"If you start counting how many times people need rescuing, they're just going to stop calling for help," Dick pointed out. "This is a terrible idea."

"Of course you would think so; you're already losing." Damian said bluntly.

"What? No, I'm not!"

"He's right!" Jason laughed. "No matter how we count it, you're losing. You needed saving and I did the saving, therefore I'm winning. Though I agree that we should count how many times we perform a rescue rather than how many times we're in danger. It'll be more accurate and B won't have an aneurysm if people stop calling for help."

"You said you were starting a new count!" Dick protested, still stuck on the fact that he was somehow getting dragged into the competition against his will and he was somehow already behind. "This shouldn't be included!"

"From _this point onwards_ ," Jason agreed. "At this point, I just rescued you."

"With assistance from me!" Damian added.

"Hmm, good point. Do we count assists or just who completes the rescue?"

Dick groaned again as his brothers once again ignored him.

"Perhaps just completed rescues," Damian allowed in a magnanimous voice. "I see no need to share the glory and I will undoubtedly surpass your meagre victory in very short order."

"We can't tell B about this," Jason said firmly. "Or Agent A."

"Or Red Robin," Damian grinned maliciously.

" _Robin_ …" Dick warned. "It's hardly a fair wager if someone doesn't know they're involved."

" _Fine_ , we'll inform him of the competition," Damian conceded with a disappointed frown. "What are we wagering?"

"Bragging rights?" Dick offered hopefully. Bragging rights would be relatively harmless and less humiliating than anything either Jason or Damian would think up.

"Bragging goes without saying," Jason said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. He and Damian had finished securing the smugglers and made their way back to where Dick still sat in a shivering heap on the deck. "Ready to go someplace warm?"

Dick nodded gratefully as he was hauled to his feet and Jason steadied him as they made their way to the bridge of the vessel.

"How about detailing the Batmobile?" Damian asked. "That's a menial and undesirable task and should provide sufficient motivation to avoid failure."

Jason shook his head. "If I win the competition and the only thing that happens is that B gets a shiny car, then I've already lost."

"What if the losers have to wait on the winner for a full week? Laundry, cooking, cleaning … that sort of thing," Dick said. That was a relatively harmless thing to wager…

"I'm already pretty clean and I don't want any of you cooking for me," Jason groused. "Maybe the reward could be different for each person who wins?"

Dick grinned in spite of his still-shivering body. "You mean, if I win, I could have hugs whenever I want without complaint and you guys would have to watch whatever I choose for every movie night for the next six months?"

"Six months?" Damian echoed doubtfully. "That seems like a long time."

"Why, what would you choose for your reward?" Dick countered as Jason helped him sit on one of the bolted-down seats in the heated bridge. He sighed in relief as Damian handed him a jacket off of a nearby hook, not caring in the slightest that it stank faintly of fish. He tucked the jacket over his shoulders and tried to will his body to generate more heat.

"I like the idea of you all being at my beck and call," Damian admitted. He pressed himself against Dick's side, wordlessly offering what little body heat he had left. Dick reached out and pulled him closer. "Maybe I could assign you each a task. Red Hood would be my chef, Nightwing would be my chauffer, and Red Robin can clean up after my pets."

"I'm sure he'd just _love_ that idea," Dick sighed. "Maybe we should talk to Red before we go signing him up to be your servant? He might not even want to participate."

_Hopefully_ he wouldn't want to participate.

"If he wanted a say in this, he should have been here," Damian argued. "His absence is no excuse."

"Play fair, you little gremlin," Jason warned as he turned the fishing vessel back towards Gotham Harbour. "He's not here because he's working a case across town, so it's not like he's playing hooky."

"There have to be rules and everyone has to agree," Dick concurred, hating the fact that he was contributing to the discussion at all. This would end badly, of that much he was certain, but his brothers were going to compete no matter what he said, so the least he could do would be to try and mitigate the damage.

Damian hummed in non-committal manner. Jason at least looked like he agreed.

Dick settled back in his seat and tried to ignore his throbbing head.

Maybe he was worrying about nothing. Maybe his brothers would forget all about their ridiculous contest and everything would fine. After all, they lived busy lives and nobody really had time for such childish games. It would all blow over.

The thought calmed him.

He let himself relax. Soon he would be under Alfred's care and he would get hot soup and soothing tea. His only concern would be washing the smell of fish out of his hair while he took a shower in the hottest water he could stand.

Everything would be fine.

He had no idea just how wrong he was ...

* * *


	2. Breaking down barriers ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to hammer chapters out fairly quickly, so I'm going to apologize in advance if there are any massive plot holes. Before posting, I re-read these things so many times that the words stop having any meaning and it's entirely possible I'm missing things. (Though really, the chapters are pretty much just an excuse for some competitive batbros, gratuitous danger, and snark). All in good fun. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you like it!

* * *

"Anytime, Hood!"

Damian's voice was grating and Jason gritted his teeth to keep from snapping back at him.

The boy was pressing his face to the small window in the door as if he could speed Jason through the laborious process of picking the lock by his sheer proximity to it.

It wasn't helpful.

Even less helpful was the fact that Damian's captors had apparently broken the key off in the lock. Try as he might, there was simply no way for Jason to free his brother with only a lockpick and the lock itself was too solid to yield to bullets without the risk of dangerous ricochets.

That didn't leave Jason with many options.

"This is too slow," Jason complained finally. "I'm going to use the explosives."

"What?" Damian's voice was muffled behind the glass, but his wide eyes were more than expressive enough as Jason got to his feet. "Did you say _explosives_?"

"I'll blow the door off its hinges," Jason explained calmly. "You'll be fine."

"I wouldn't say getting _blown up_ counts as fine!"

"The _door_ will get blown up, not you," Jason retorted, slightly offended at Damian's lack of faith. If there was one thing Jason was good at, it was blowing things up.

"And why, pray tell, did you bring explosives to what was supposed to be a simple in-and-out job?"

"Because it's never a simple in-and-out job! You're proving me right even now. Next time, we're not going to split up; you apparently still need a babysitter." The older man smiled humourlessly as his trapped brother responded with an angry tirade. Jason reached into his pocket to remove the necessary explosives. He hoped the little brat didn't mention that fact to Dick, or Jason was going to get an earful about how to safely handle dangerous materials.

He rolled his eyes as Damian voiced every single misgiving he had about the plan.

The boy was worrying needlessly. The door was heavy and constructed from reinforced steel. The small window was made from shatterproof glass and metal filaments. With the lock obstructed beyond Jason's ability to clear it, explosives were the best chance to get Damian out and complete the mission.

_Speaking of . . ._

"Do you have the flash drive?" Jason didn't bother looking up as he worked. They were running out of time.

"Of course, I have the flash drive!" Damian retorted. A pause. "At least, I had it before they cornered me in the library. I had to hide it or they would have found it on me. They're going to come back any time now to try and make me tell them where it is, so if you don't mind moving this along, that would be great."

Jason sighed deeply. Things were never easy. "Where is it now?"

"Hidden behind a copy of _Moby Dick_ ," Damian answered, "and the sooner I'm free of this room, the sooner we can retrieve it."

"We won't have long once the explosion is heard."

"We'll have to work fast then, won't we, Hood?"

How Damian managed to sound so patronizing while trapped behind a door was beyond Jason. It was almost tempting to leave Robin in the room while Jason went to recover the drive himself. Maybe it would teach the kid a little patience. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Jason knew he wouldn't go through with it, though. There was always the risk that the bad guys would return for Robin before he made it back and if something happened to the little demon when he was alone and trapped, Jason would feel more than a bit guilty. No, he was going to have to get the kid first and then finish the mission. Unfortunately, that meant that he was going to have to listen to Damian's complaints for the foreseeable future.

 _The things he did for family_ …

"Stand back," he ordered his brother, watching as Damian's face disappeared from the tiny window.

He let out a small breath, hoping that he hadn't miscalculated . . .

Jason ducked around the corner and triggered the explosive.

As he'd warned, the noise was loud, shaking the floor with the force of the blast. Jason was around the corner almost before the bang had finished.

"Robin?" he called, dismayed to see the door still standing. The wall on both sides of the door was severely damaged, however, and Jason reached out with a gloved hand to pull at the blackened door handle.

A loud groan sounded and the heavy metal door teetered ominously, giving Jason barely enough time to jump out of the way before it toppled over into the hallway.

"Robin?" he asked again, peeking his head into the formerly-locked room. His brother had his body wedged into the corner with his hands pressed firmly over his ears.

"Red Hood?" Damian's voice was too loud, but he was in one piece. "That was insanity! You could have killed me!"

"You're still alive, aren't you?" Jason replied. He stepped out of the way as Damian joined him in the hall. "Where's the library?"

Damian scowled. "This way."

It wasn't until they were in the library and Damian was making a mess of the bookshelves that Jason realized something.

"Hey, I just saved you," he announced proudly. "You were trapped and I rescued you, which means I'm _definitely_ winning. Saving Nightwing last week and you today … I'm just some kind of big damn hero, aren't I?"

Damian never paused, still tossing books aside as he looked for _Moby Dick_. "You didn't _rescue_ me," he protested. "I wasn't in any danger."

"I'm certain you had everything under control," Jason noted dryly. "That's why I needed explosives to get you out - because you were _so_ safe. You said yourself they were going to interrogate you; they were probably going to shoot you, too. Like it or not, Robin, your life was in danger and I rescued you, so it still counts!"

Damian huffed, about to reply when he suddenly gave a cry of triumph. "Here's the book! It's not where I thought I had left it, but we've got it!" He pulled the book from the shelf and stood on his tiptoes to look behind it.

Jason peered through the crack in the partially-open library door, noting that their window of opportunity was gone. "We have company."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the first bullets came punching through the wooden door. Jason jerked back, trying to get out of the line of fire.

"Perfect timing," Damian observed, still pulling books from the shelf. "I'll be ready to leave in just a moment."

"That may be difficult," Jason replied, taking advantage of a momentary pause in gunfire to send his own volley of non-lethal shots down the hall. Sometimes the no-killing rule made things so much harder than they needed to be.

Jason glanced around, looking for an alternate escape route and cursed under his breath. Augustus Hawthorne, the paranoid eccentric billionaire who owned the mansion, had covered every window with thick metal bars. That, along with his heavily-armed security force and the fact that he was in possession of plans for an experimental doomsday weapon, made Jason seriously doubt that the man could claim he was simply worried about thieves. Then again, vigilantes were currently cornered in his library after liberating his stolen weapons plans, so maybe there was something to be said for paranoia. In any case, the third-storey window was not an option as an exit, leaving the guard-infested hallway as their only way out.

Jason took another shot at the attackers before ducking back behind cover. "What's taking so long? I thought you said you had it?"

There was a brief pause.

"It's not here."

Jason paused, certain he had misheard Damian. "What do you mean _'it's not here'_?"

Damian actually looked worried. That was never a good sign. "The drive isn't here."

"You said you hid it behind _Moby Dick_ ," Jason reminded him incredulously. "How the hell did you lose it? Did you get the wrong book? _Moby Dick_ is the one with the whale and Captain Ahab-"

"I know what _Moby Dick_ is!" Damian snapped scathingly as Jason lined up another shot. "I'm telling you it's gone. They must have gotten here before we did and they found it somehow."

"How?" Jason growled, fighting the anger rising up inside him.

"I don't know! Despite your incompetence in unlocking the door, they certainly didn't have enough time to search the entirety of this room and I was in here alone when -" Damian's voice trailed off.

"What's going on, Robin?" Jason chanced pulling his attention away from the door for a moment, to where Damian was staring at a full-length mirror on the wall. "Now is not the time to fix your hair!"

Damian shook his head. "My hair is fine, despite you trying to blow me up. I'm thinking, though . . ."

Robin raised a bird-a-rang, aiming carefully at an angle into the mirror before letting it fly and shattering the mirror into a thousand pieces.

Jason frowned as the small room behind the mirror was dramatically revealed. It was empty save for a security camera and a plain-looking door hidden in a recess - a secret spy-hole with an emergency exit. Who knew how many similar rooms were situated around the mansion? And what the heck was wrong with Hawthorne that he had spy-holes in his own mansion? Was he accumulating blackmail material on his guests? Jason found himself hoping Bruce had never gone to the house for a meeting or a party ...

"This man takes paranoia to an entirely new extreme," Damian announced grimly, unknowingly echoing Jason's thoughts. "They must have the drive; they could have watched me on the camera or there could even have been someone in here watching me as I hid it, because it's definitely not there now."

"And they probably just locked you up as a distraction for me so they had time to get away," Jason growled, sending another burst of bullets down the hallway. "Fantastic."

The answering hail of gunfire splintered the doorframe and Jason ducked, cursing as the wood fragments rained over him.

"I think we should see where this door goes," Damian responded. "Unless, of course, you'd rather continue trading bullets with the guards out there?"

Jason smiled behind his mask as he fired again, bracing himself to break his cover and join Damian on the other side of the room.

The report of gunshots filled the air again and without any further warning, Jason felt a heavy blow to his right side. He was cursing before he even felt any pain.

Damian's turned to him in alarm and Jason forced himself to dash towards his brother. He couldn't tell how bad the wound was, but he'd been shot before. Once the adrenaline wore off, he would feel the searing agony that would undoubtedly result, but for now, he had to keep moving. His left hand pressed against his side and when he pulled it away, it was already drenched in blood. Some bastard had gotten a very lucky shot, somehow getting past a weak spot in his armour.

Damian was at his side in an instant, trying to see the injury, but Jason shrugged him off.

"We don't have time," he reminded the boy. "The guards are going to storm the room once they realize I'm not shooting back."

"Are you okay to bring up the rear?" Damian asked, clearly not liking the situation, but unable to do anything to fix it.

Jason nodded, trying to hide the growing tremors in his limbs. The pain was already making itself known, but he couldn't afford to focus on the burning hole in his side. They would be captured in minutes if Jason slowed them down and he harboured no illusions that Damian would leave him behind unless he was already dead. Probably not even then, if he was honest.

For all his posturing, the kid was a very good person.  
With a final grim look, Damian opened the door and made his way as quickly as he dared down the twisting staircase and into narrow corridor beyond.

They hadn't travelled far when Jason heard the guards breach the library in a loud hail of gunfire. Their foes had apparently either decided that the vigilantes were out of bullets or they had just tired of the stand-off.

Jason felt a surge of rage at the thought of all those books being destroyed in a wave of bullets, but forced himself to focus. They were going to have company very soon and he couldn't afford to let himself get distracted.

"Robin," Jason began, his voice strained as he struggled forward.

"I know, I know," Damian shot back, glancing over his shoulder. "There's a door up ahead. If you can keep them busy for a few moments, I'll check what's beyond, but be ready to move."

Jason nodded, hating the fact that he was just following while Damian cleared the way alone. It was all he could do to focus through the pain, though, and he knew he wouldn't be moving quickly when the time came for it. Sending Damian ahead made sense.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

He turned his attention to the winding corridor they had just traversed, raising his gun and hissing in pain as it pulled on his wound.

Damian hesitated - Jason could tell - but then he was opening the door with an almost inaudible _click._

In a moment, that stealth would be betrayed by the sound of Jason's own gun. The guards would be approaching before long . . .

And as though Jason's thoughts had summoned him, the first guard turned the corner.

Jason fired a warning shot, gritting his teeth as he tried to plaster himself against the wall to present a smaller target. Damian would have laughed at that thought. Jason was anything but small.

The guard didn't heed Jason's warning and instead made his way fully into the hallway. Jason returned fire, fighting the urge to aim for centre-mass and call it a day. It wasn't particularly easy to make non-lethal shots in a narrow hallway with a shaking grip, but Jason managed to get the first man in the leg. The second man was hit in the shoulder, and after that the attackers seemed to be treating the situation with the caution it deserved. Jason gritted his teeth as a bullet impacted the wall across from him, the shooter unable to get a proper angle without turning the corner and presenting himself as a target.

Jason kept his focus, noting each resulting cry of pain when he scored a hit and wondering idly if Damian was ever going to return. What could possibly be keeping the kid?

His gun clicked and Jason stared at it in incomprehension. Out of bullets?

His hands were trembling and he was finding it difficult to stand. With his fumbling grip, Jason knew he wouldn't be able to reload before he was killed.

Backing his way to the door Damian had exited through mere moments before, Red Hood took a deep breath and tried to make a silent retreat. It was not the way he liked to do things, but it was the only thing he could do that wouldn't result in a lecture from Dick or Tim about suicidal tendencies. Not to mention what Alfred would say to him … the butler would be annoyed enough that Jason got shot in the first place.

He was also painfully aware of the fact that he didn't have much time before the guards noticed that he was retreating. They wouldn't waste any time closing the gap once they realized he was actually out of bullets. Jason fumbled behind his back for the door knob and nearly ended up toppling through it when the door opened unexpectedly.

Jason's head spun and he was barely aware of the firm grip that landed on his upper arm. He tried to move aside, but he was tugged firmly in the opposite direction. Jason blinked wearily and pulled his arm in an attempt to free himself, but was greeted by Damian's grim countenance.

"Time to go, Red Hood," Robin announced as Jason tried to pry the boy's grip off his arm. "Stop fighting your own rescue."

"They're right behind me," Jason protested breathlessly as Damian tugged him along the wall to where he had somehow procured a car. "I'm out of bullets."

He was unceremoniously shoved into the passenger seat, his vision going white with the sudden pain from his movements.

When he finally managed to clear his thoughts, the car was already in motion, peeling wildly out of the estate grounds.

Damian seemed utterly focussed on driving, as though unconcerned about the possibility of pursuit. The boy could barely see over the dashboard and Jason found himself staring in mild horror. "This is going to end so badly."

"I can drive," Damian insisted, sounding more like a twelve-year old than Jason was particularly comfortable with at that exact moment. "I've been driving for years."'

"They're going to chase us. How much experience do you have with pursuits?" Jason asked, swallowing dryly as he closed his eyes. He was not feeling all that great at the moment, and Damian's somewhat erratic driving wasn't helping. He pulled out an emergency pressure bandage and pressed it to his side, groaning at the pain.

"They aren't going to be chasing us because I slashed the tires on the other cars," Damian stated bluntly and Jason couldn't help but smile.

"I'll bet they're pissed off," Jason muttered.

"Stay awake," Damian ordered. "I've already activated an emergency beacon. Batman is on his way and we'll get you help."

"B's gonna be pissed, too," Jason said. He hated how fuzzy his thoughts were. "We didn't get the drive. Hawthorne still has it."

"We'll get it back," Damian assured him. His voice was grim and Jason was struck by the thought that he'd never heard the boy sound so much like his father before.

Jason blinked, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"I just thought of something," Damian sounded almost conversational now, and the sudden change had Jason turning to look at him. "You were shot and bleeding to death and _I saved you_. I was the one who found the exit in the library, I acquired an escape vehicle, and I ensured that we would not be pursued. That's one for my count!"

Jason let out a pained snort of laughter. "Nice try, but I'm not rescued yet. I could still bleed to death."

"What you do after the rescue is up to you," Damian replied. "When I _successfully_ removed you from danger, you were still alive, therefore it counts."

The car slowed and finally stopped, but Jason didn't bother to try and see where they were. He didn't care.

"I still saved you, too," Jason mumbled. "From the locked room and the interrogation and the murder and all that."

"They were using me for a distraction! They probably wouldn't have killed me!"

"You're _Robin_ and they had you in a locked room. They were totally gonna kill you at some point." Jason hated how weak his voice was and how hard it was getting to speak.

Damian hummed. "We'll discuss it after you are no longer bleeding. Batman is here and we can no longer speak of this."

Jason barely managed to acknowledge Damian's words before the car door was wrenched open and Batman's looming figure filled his vision. The wounded man hated just how relieved he was to see Bruce. Even after everything that happened, he still couldn't quite rid himself of the belief that once Bruce was there, everything was going to be all right.

"Red Hood? Are you with me?" Bruce's voice was low and worried. He moved Jason's hand to see the wound and Jason was almost amazed at the depth of concern that radiated from what little of Bruce's face that he could see.

Jason managed a grin. "It was all Robin's fault," he slurred.

The sound of Robin's outraged protest trailed behind Jason as Batman lifted him from the car. The older man's grip was strong and somehow comforting. It was a strange sensation to be carried like that - Jason wasn't a small man, after all. Bruce was more than capable of lifting him, though, and transferring a wounded man to the Batmobile was sadly a process with which Bruce was very familiar.

Jason barely winced as he was carefully placed in the vehicle and he didn't acknowledge Robin as the boy clambered in beside him. He simply drifted in an exhausted and pain-filled haze as he listened to Damian dig around for the first-aid kit.

He listened with fading interest as Bruce radioed ahead to the cave to warn Alfred of their situation.

He blinked slowly as Damian's face came into view above him, his lips moving as the boy said something that was probably not as important as his worried features made it seem.

He cursed in sudden, fiery agony as the little brat pressed down _hard_ on Jason's wound, bringing him back to complete consciousness with all the subtlety of a rock concert at a golf tournament.

"Stay awake," Damian ordered, clearly unrepentant of the pain he was inflicting.

Jason groaned and tried to push away the small hands that were sending pulses of pain throughout his body.

"Get off!" Jason gasped.

The fact that Damian had no difficulty overpowering him was embarrassing and Jason felt his brief moment of clarity fading quickly as his strength was sapped.

_Stupid blood loss._

Everything was a little fuzzy as he heard Batman and Robin talking over his head.

Normally that would have bothered him, but right now, Jason found himself not really caring. He was on his way to the cave where Alfred would be waiting to fix him up and fuss over him. Eventually Jason would be well enough to sneak away and go back to his own place to rest in peace. It wasn't the first time things had played out like this.

Robin's troubled face notwithstanding, Jason wasn't really worried.

Not anymore.

He let himself drift, feeling consciousness fade from his grasp.

Everything was going to be fine.

* * *


	3. Running out of time ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tim. He spent my first Batman fic drugged into unconsciousness and he fell asleep midway through my second one. This is finally his moment to … shine? Okay, so he needs a little help in this one, too. It's not his fault. :)

* * *

Tim tried not to gag as blood streamed thickly from his nose. The throbbing pain of his face couldn't distract him from the fact that the red liquid was getting everywhere - running into his mouth every time he took a breath and dripping from his chin onto the front of his suit.

It was uncomfortable and the taste was terrible, but there was nothing he could do about it except hope that his nose wasn't as badly broken as he feared. He couldn't exactly apply pressure to stop the bleeding, not that it would matter in a few minutes.

Not while he was chained to a post.

Not while he was staring at the instrument of his own demise.

Not while he had just over seven minutes left to live.

He wondered, not for the first time, just where the heck his backup was. He'd alerted everyone the second he had realized that Augustus Hawthorne was looking to test one of his new weapons. The man worked fast and Tim was both amazed and appalled at how quickly Hawthorne had managed to produce his experimental chemical weapon.

From stealing the weapons plans barely a month ago to shooting Jason less than a week before, Hawthorne was certainly upping his game far more rapidly than Tim was comfortable with.

Tim spat a wad of blood onto the floor, grimacing as the red liquid splattered on the concrete. He was pretty sure he had a mild concussion at the very least. Everything was slightly blurry and it was hard to keep his focus on the matter at hand … namely his imminent and horrific demise.

_Right._

Not just his own death, though. It would also be the imminent and horrific demise of anyone in the building above him. Because, _of course_ Hawthorne wouldn't test his weapon anywhere other than a Wayne Enterprises research facility. The man had been rather irritated when his plans to collaborate with the most influential company in Gotham had failed, and apparently he had decided to take a little vengeance at the same time as testing his weapon. Hawthorne was not a man who was used to being told no, apparently.

It had been Tim himself who had ensured the proposal was denied, so it was almost poetic that Hawthorne was not only getting revenge on the company that snubbed him, but also on the person directly responsible for that rejection in the first place. Not that Hawthorne would ever know Tim Drake-Wayne and Red Robin were the same person, of course. It wasn't like it was Tim's fault anyway. Hawthorne was a terrible human being and Tim wasn't about to do business of any kind with him. With his family already investigating the man's shady dealings, Tim had smoothly steered Wayne Enterprises from any association with Hawthorne Holdings and its CEO's questionable decisions. But while WE had avoided the bad press and moral pitfalls of working with Hawthorne, anyone working at the research facility was going to suffer a lot worse thanks to Tim's decision.

He knew for a fact that there were security guards on the premises at all hours, along with workaholic researchers and their sleep-deprived assistants. There could be a dozen people or more wandering the building, happily going about their business while remaining completely unaware that in less than seven minutes things were going to get ugly.

Tim strained at the chains again, cursing as they held him fast. If he couldn't get free, people were going to die - good, innocent people whose only crime was working for a company Hawthorne no longer liked.

At that moment, Tim hated Hawthorne more fiercely than he could remember hating anyone else.

He eyed the bomb intently, blinking again to try to clear his vision. Even if he could get free, his options were limited when it came to the device itself. For one thing, he couldn't reach it. Hawthorne and his goons had secured it to the ceiling next to a ventilation shaft. It was just over eight feet in the air. Without a stepladder or the ability to fly, Tim wouldn't be able to even see inside the metal casing, much less render it harmless.

He wished fervently that Hawthorne hadn't broken the remote control that would have allowed Tim to simply turn the device off. He also wished that Hawthorne had just stuck to his original plan to arm the device to go off the next morning. Tim would have had ample time to stop it and nobody would have gotten hurt. The crazy billionaire, however, apparently had the attention span of a sugar-addled schoolboy and just couldn't wait any longer to see how much damage he could cause.

Once Hawthorne announced his intention to activate the bomb immediately, Tim's hands had been tied … metaphorically speaking, of course. He'd _had_ to move in and attempt to stop the group from killing innocent people.

Unfortunately for Tim, Hawthorne had enough disposable income that he could afford to hire an excessive number of cronies and as a result, the teen was vastly outnumbered.

Tim was nothing if not adaptable, so close-quarters fighting in a basement against superior numbers while trying to grab a remote control from a murderous billionaire wasn't even on the top-ten list of unusual things he'd done recently.

He was good at his job, _he really was_ , but in the end there were just too many people and someone got in a lucky blow. From there, it was a rain of fists, possibly some boots, a bleeding nose, and a front-row seat to doomsday as he was tied to a pillar with the very same chains that had been used to transport the bomb to the facility in the first place. Apparently, Tim wasn't the only one who was adaptable.

So, there Tim was, trapped with a bomb that was set to go off in six minutes. His belt had been tossed aside by a gleeful and gloating Hawthorne, so he had no tools to free himself with. He had no way to reach the bomb even if he did manage to get free. His earpiece had fallen out during one of the blows to the head that he took, so he couldn't call anyone to see where they were. There was no sign of Batman or any other backup, and Tim had no way of warning anyone in the building that they were about to have a really terrible day.

All in all, Tim couldn't fight the feeling that he was pretty much screwed.

Honestly, as much as he wanted someone to come to his aid, preferably with bolt-cutters and a ladder, the best thing he could hope for was that everybody was busy elsewhere. Maybe Nightwing or Robin was clearing the building at that very minute. Maybe Batman had already given Hawthorne and his men a beat-down and was on his way to the basement. If the building was cleared and Hawthorne apprehended, it could still be called a win. If that was the case, even if they didn't make it in time to save Tim, there would be only one fatality. Tim could live with that. Again, metaphorically speaking.

Tim spat out another mouthful of blood. Maybe he was a little concussed …

Tim watched the red numbers as the clicked down the seconds until his death and tugged at his chains again. Augustus Hawthorne wasn't even a costumed villain and he'd still somehow managed to hit that classic trope of strapping the hero to a bomb.

Tim wished he could sigh against the cliché that had become his life - _death?_ \- but inhaling deeply enough to sigh would have only resulted in more blood dripping down the back of his throat, so he resisted the urge.

Stupid clichés.

At least Hawthorne had left the light on, though perhaps he'd done that so Tim could watch the timer tick away the remainder of his life.

Evil villains were jerks like that.

Tim rallied his senses and forced himself to focus. He couldn't let himself give up! He strained at his chains, wincing as the metal dug into his wrists and tightened around his chest as he struggled. His ribs ached under the pressure, but Tim didn't let up. He had to stop the bomb, but before he could do that, he had to get free.

He _had_ to.

He heard a noise from behind him and he stopped momentarily, falling silent to better make out what was going on. There was a thump, a crash, and then the sound of the door bursting open before the room was filled with a scowling Robin and an alarmingly-calm Nightwing.

Tim didn't bother to hide his relief. He hated looking helpless, but he knew any attempt to appear in control would have failed the moment his brothers took in his bloody features and the fact that he was clearly in trouble.

"We're here to save you from yourself, Red Robin," Damian announced. "You're a disgrace - a regular damsel in distress!" He looked almost gleeful as he reached into his belt for his lock-picks.

"I'm not a damsel, you brat, and I don't mean to rush you," Tim said, "but there's a bomb waiting to go off and it's going to release enough poison gas to kill not only us, but anyone still in the building above us. If we're going to have any time to clear those people out, we need to move now."

Damian's grin faded and Dick cursed so colourfully that Tim was momentarily shocked into silence. Then he realized that Dick was tugging Damian over to the bomb.

"Umm, what about me?" he asked, rattling his restraints pointedly.

"We have five minutes until this goes off," Dick replied. "We'll never get anyone out in time."

"We could _try_ ," the teen replied with a frown. "We could pull the fire alarm and have Oracle check the security cameras to make sure everyone is out."

Even as he said it, Tim knew there wasn't enough time for any of that. Even worse, a fire alarm would only draw more people to the building and potentially expose even more innocent victims to whatever compound was in the bomb.

Dick was right. There wasn't enough time.

"I can definitely help disarm that if you get me out first," Tim offered. Then again, his vision was blurry and he could barely breathe past the blood streaming down his face. Maybe it was better to leave this one to his brothers. Judging by the fact that no one took him up on his offer, the others must have agreed.

Dick gripped Damian's shoulder firmly. "You're going to have to climb on my shoulders so you can reach. I'll hold you up there, Robin, but it's up to you; you're going to have to disarm it."

For his part, Damian didn't question his brother. He simply clambered up Dick's body until he was sitting rather precariously on his shoulders.

"Be careful, Robin," Tim warned. "There could be traps. It was already up there when I came in, so I didn't get a look at it when they were putting it together."

Damian merely nodded, one hand holding onto Dick's head for stability while the other reached for the device.

Tim held his breath. He hated feeling helpless. Being made to watch his brothers disarm a bomb while he was chained to a post was certainly making him feel that way. There was nothing he could do aside from squinting to clear his blurred vision and trying not to swallow his own blood.

His breath caught in his throat as Damian swayed slightly in his high perch.

"How's it going over there?" Tim called out, worried by the lack of communication from the other side of the room. "In case you were wondering, there's only three minutes left on the timer."

"That isn't helping," Damian replied in irritation.

He was probably right.

"So, Robin . . . you've had a chance to do this before, right?" Tim asked, not taking his brother's hint to remain silent.

"No," Damian replied, him voice muffled by the small toolkit he was holding in his mouth.

Tim let out a slow breath, trying not to dwell on the fact that his twelve-year-old brother was playing with an explosive and he likely had no clue what he was doing beyond what he'd learned in Batman's training scenarios. And this was an experimental weapon.

Tim's nose throbbed mercilessly, but he forced himself to remain quiet. Anything other than being a supportive brother would be counter-productive and probably just serve to get everyone killed faster.

"Don't worry, I'm not an idiot," Damian said, not pulling his gaze from the bomb in his hands. "I'm not touching the explosive. I'm just trying to disconnect the power supply to interrupt the timer."

"That could still cause it to explode," Tim pointed out, alarm rising within him. His mind raced through every single bomb schematic he'd ever studied as he tried to remember a case where an interrupted power source didn't result in a premature explosion. Maybe it was the blood he kept choking on, but Tim couldn't recall if one existed.

He bit his tongue, trying to stay silent if he couldn't say anything supportive.

The teen clenched his fists, trying to resist the urge to rattle against his chains again.

He was going to die chained to a post while his brothers played jungle gym underneath a bomb.

At least it wasn't a cliché anymore.

"Two minutes," he announced, feeling an odd calm come over him. "Just so you know."

"Almost there . . ." Damian's voice was tense and him arms had almost disappeared within the metal casing of the device.

Dick's jaw was clenched, the only sign of the stress he was feeling. He held tightly to Damian's legs, steadying him so he could work. He offered no advice and no encouragement, instead trusting that Damian would succeed. Or maybe resigning himself to the fact that, if Damian failed, at least they probably wouldn't have long to worry about it.

Probably.

"One minute and thirty seconds!" Tim kept his voice steady as he watched the countdown.

"Got it!" Damian announced triumphantly and the clock stopped at one minute and twenty-seven seconds. He pulled a long wire from the casing and handed the end to Dick. "Hold this."

Tim let out a small laugh of relief and noted that even Damian seemed happy as Dick held the end of the seemingly-innocuous wire carefully.

Damian pulled a second wire free and tied it so that it was shorter than the one he had handed Dick. He let the wire dangle, carefully ensuring that the exposed ends were nowhere near each other.

"As long as those ends don't touch, we should be fine," Damian said firmly.

"Great work, Robin." Dick let out a relieved sigh. He helped the boy down from his shoulders and immediately hugged him close. "That was way too close!"

Tim allowed himself to sag forward in his chains. He didn't even care that his ribs hurt or that he was still swallowing his own blood. The innocent civilians were alive, his brothers were alive, he was alive and everyone would likely remain that way for the foreseeable future. Nothing else mattered. "You had me worried there, Robin, but you did it!"

Dick started to move towards Tim, pulling out his lock-picking set as he did, but Damian stopped him.

"Wait, Nightwing."

"Wait?" Tim frowned. "What the hell, Robin? I don't really want to stay chained to a post, you know."

"I know," Damian grinned, "but I think it's only fair that I complete the rescue myself. After all, you were in immediate danger of being blown up or exposed to a toxic chemical of some sort and I saved you from certain death. Now, I will be the one to save you from your bindings. I'm still debating if that counts as two rescues or just one."

"Really?" Tim asked in stunned disbelief. He watched in growing annoyance as Damian took the lock-picks from Dick's outstretched hand.

"Really," Damian confirmed with a smug expression. "Also, I saved Red Hood from this same band of miscreants less than a week ago, so it's very poetic that I do the same for you."

"It doesn't count as two," Tim protested. "My life isn't in danger anymore."

"You could be bleeding internally," Damian noted as he examined Tim's chains. He sounded almost _hopeful_.

Dick let out a concerned sound at the idea that Tim might be more injured than he appeared. "Robin, either let him out or I'll do it. You can discuss the tally after Red is checked out and no longer actively bleeding."

Damian rolled his eyes, but one of the chains around Tim's chest fell loose. A moment later and Tim's right arm was free and he immediately brought his hand up to pinch his sluggishly-bleeding nose. His face was sticky with drying blood and it felt disgusting. Tim winced at the pain. He probably looked like he belonged in a horror movie.

There was another clatter of chains and Tim was finally free from the post. Dick was already there, steadying Tim as he took a tentative breath and hissed as his nose throbbed. Dick handed him a bandage to help stop the bleeding.

"Sit down and tip your head forward a bit," Dick directed, gently pushing Tim's shoulder until he was resting on the ground with his back against the post.

Damian took the opportunity to hurry to the door. "Batman should have apprehended Hawthorne by now. I'll go meet him and show him where to come so we can dispose of this device."

"Don't worry," Tim replied lightly, feeling the exhaustion that followed a near-miss. "We're not going anywhere."

Dick turned his attention fully to Tim as Damian left the room. The older man moved to sit beside the teen and began to gently probe his ribs to see if they were broken.

Tim winced at each small push, but finally shook Dick off. "I think they're just bruised."

Dick seemed unconvinced, but let it slide in favour of adjusting Tim's grip on the gauze pressed to his bleeding nose.

Tim allowed his mother-henning for a moment before Dick finally sat back.

"You're not going to let him count this as two, are you?" Tim asked.

Dick shrugged. "Honestly, I think this entire thing is a terrible idea. He and Red Hood are very determined though. I think they've already made a chart."

Tim groaned. "How did this even happen? I left you all alone for two days and suddenly I'm part of some elaborate test to do … _what_? See who the best hero is? See who the worst one is? Why are we even doing this?"

"You know how it is … everything turns into a competition," Dick said. "While I agree that it probably won't end well, there's not much I can do about it. They're not going to stop just because I tell them to."

"And you're not about to rat them out to B or Agent A," Tim said. It wasn't even a possibility that Dick would do that unless someone was taking unnecessary chances or making bad decisions.

"I'd actually kind of hoped it was going to blow over," Dick admitted.

"Know something funny though? I hate the thought of coming in last." Tim glanced down at the bandage in his hand, trying to determine if he was still actively bleeding. "I don't really know what to do. I mean, I don't even want to be a part of it, but I still loathe the idea of losing."

"Me too," Dick replied with a sheepish grin. He handed Tim a clean bandage and the teen pressed it to his face.

"Do you know where the tally is so far?"

"Red Hood is claiming to have two, and Robin has one. Well, I guess he has two now that he saved you."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Great. I'm definitely not letting him use unchaining me as a second win. I think you shouldn't be able to count different parts of the same rescue."

Dick let out a huff of laughter. "Sounds like you've made up your mind. If you're coming up with rules, you're playing along, aren't you?"

"I guess so," Tim confirmed reluctantly. "I didn't start this, but I'm sure as hell not going to lose to _Robin_."

Dick nodded slowly looking slightly uncomfortable. "I had actually kind of hoped that you'd be the logical one, little brother."

"There's no logic on earth that will make it possible for me to listen to Robin bragging _forever_. No, I'll play along, but I'm not going to let myself get carried away." Tim smiled slightly as he confirmed that his nose had stopped bleeding. "You don't have to worry about me."

Tim tried not to let a sense of uneasiness overtake him when Dick didn't look convinced.

"Guess I'll have to start thinking of what I want if I win," Tim mused.

Dick nodded. "I'm not sure what Jason has come up with yet, but Damian wants to make you clean litter boxes."

Tim groaned. "Of course he does."

The sounds of approaching footsteps signalled the imminent arrival of Batman and therefore the end of their conversation. Dick climbed to his feet to meet their father. Tim stayed sitting. There was no sense trying to look alert when he was liberally coated in his own blood. Unless Batman was in a good mood, the only place Tim was going was back to the cave where Alfred could fuss over him.

"Hawthorne got away?" Dick said softly, drawing Tim's attention.

"He's craftier than he looks," Bruce replied. He sounded irritated. "Gordon is putting every officer he can on this. After pulling this stunt, Hawthorne will be the most wanted man in the state. Obviously, we can't wait for law enforcement to apprehend him. This is our top priority from now on."

Tim struggled to his feet, not bothering to shake off Dick's assistance as his older brother gripped his arm.

Hawthorne had no idea the kind of trouble he had brought down upon himself. Batman's determined gaze was a prospect that had made many hardened criminals tremble in fear.

And after everything that had happened, after seeing just what the man was capable of, Tim was not going to rest until Hawthorne was stopped.

Bruce glanced at Tim's face, his momentary attention more than enough to assess the teen's state. "Nightwing, take Red Robin back to the cave and then reconvene here. We have a long night ahead of us."

Even though he'd known Bruce would send him home, Tim still felt a bitter sting of shame. "I'm fine, Batman. I can still-"

"You're hurt. Let Agent A fix you up and get some rest." He turned his attention to the bomb fastened to the ceiling, already moving on to the problem at hand. Clearly, Batman was on a mission.

Dick patted Tim's shoulder comfortingly. "Hawthorne probably isn't going to be caught tonight, Red, so you have a chance to wipe the blood off your face before we take him down. What B _meant_ to say just now is that you did a good job tracking him down in the first place and finding the bomb before he killed a bunch of WE workaholics. Right, B?"

Batman looked over at Tim and Dick, as though seeing them for the first time. "Right. Good work, boys."

Damian retrieved Tim's belt, handing it over in silence without the slightest hint of mockery. Even he wouldn't demean Tim when Bruce was nearby in full bat-mode. From that moment out, Bruce Wayne was taking a back seat to Batman.

Hawthorne's men had shot Jason. He had beaten Tim and nearly blown up a building with a chemical bomb - a building with Bruce Wayne's employees and three of his sons inside. The more vengeance-motivated part of Batman wasn't going to be able to let those facts slide until the evil billionaire had answered for his crimes.

Tim knew Bruce was focussed. He knew Batman was taking it personally and would do his usual obsessive brooding until the case was resolved. Understanding his father's mind didn't mean that Tim didn't hate being benched, even if it _was_ only for a night.

Dick steered him to the door, his hand still on Tim's shoulder.

It didn't mean that it didn't suck to be put aside and dismissed -

"Red Robin," Batman's voice rumbled in the concrete room.

Tim turned back to see Batman's looming frame staring at him intently. There was a brief pause as the cowled man seemed to struggle for the right words. Tim could almost see Bruce fighting to break through Batman's stern countenance.

"I … could use your assistance going over the bomb plans in the morning if you're feeling up to it."

Tim felt his lips twitch in a small grin. It was strange how such awkward and unsure words could convey so much meaning. It was still a little too much _Batman_ and not quite enough _Bruce_ , but Tim would take what he could get. "Sure thing, B. I'll be ready."

A nod was his only reply as Bruce was swallowed up again and Batman re-emerged, but that was all Tim needed. He felt a little lighter - a little less embarrassed about having been caught in the first place.

He allowed Dick to tug him closer as the older man led him from the room.

Time to go home.

* * *


	4. Ground rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Just a head's up that my job position has been reclassified as critical, so I'm heading back to work. It will likely be a little longer between updates, but I'll keep at it as best I can.  
> I hope everyone's doing well and thanks for reading!  
> Just a short chapter this time. No physical peril for the brothers; they just need to iron out the details of their wager.

* * *

When Dick walked into the sitting room, he wasn't entirely surprised to see his three brothers already glaring at one another. It was, after all, barely an hour after breakfast, so an argument of some sort was long overdue. He sighed as he flopped down on the nearest chair and regarded his siblings seriously.

Jason was sprawled on the couch with a book, looking for all the world that he was fully recovered from the gunshot wound that was undoubtedly still quite painful. Dick couldn't help but notice that Alfred the cat was sitting on Jason's knees instead of on his stomach where the cat usually perched when Jason was reading. If that wasn't an indication that his wound was still tender, Dick didn't know what was.

Tim was sitting crossed-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch. His tablet sat ignored on his lap so he could turn his full glare at Damian, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the bruising across his face. It had only been a day since Tim's nose had been broken, and the dark marks on his face were painful-looking to the point where Dick had to keep from wincing sympathetically whenever he saw the teen. Tim was getting more than a little annoyed with people constantly commenting on the state of his face, particularly since it meant that he wouldn't be able to go to work until the bruising went down drastically. The last thing they needed was a rumour that Timothy Drake-Wayne was secretly a member of Fight Club or something.

Damian was thankfully uninjured, but he was standing in the centre of the room with his arms crossed as he scowled at the middle siblings. Judging by the way he appeared to be on the defensive, Dick was willing to bet money that Damian had somehow instigated the argument. Maybe he was annoyed that Jason was somehow stealing his cat?

Only one way to find out.

"What's going on?" Dick asked reluctantly.

"I never thought I'd be the one to say this, but we really need to agree on the rules," Jason said as he glared at Damian.

The youngest Wayne looked unperturbed. "Agreed. There is far too much ambiguity and that is having a drastic effect on our counts."

"I'll say," Tim muttered. "You're counting each _stage_ of a rescue as an entirely separate rescue! At this point, you're just going to start handing out glasses of water and saying that you're saving us all from dying of dehydration!"

Dick smiled in spite of himself. "You have been taking to all of this with a certain … _intensity_ , Dami. I'm really happy you're so invested in protecting us all, but -"

"Drake is being petulant due to his own inadequacies, and Todd is just angry because I'm winning." Damian glared back at Jason, crossing his arms as he did so.

"That's exactly the problem!" Jason protested. "You aren't winning! You're being _helpful_ and claiming that you're saving lives!"

"You were wounded -"

"I wasn't dying!"

"-and you were bleeding-"

"Damian, it was a paper-cut!"

"- and I stopped you from bleeding -"

"You got me a _band-aid_!"

"-so I rescued you. Point for me."

Tim let out a small snort of laughter and Dick sighed.

"Maybe we should re-think this entire thing," Dick offered hopefully. "If you guys can't play nice, maybe you need to stop playing altogether."

Tim didn't appear upset at the prospect, but Jason and Damian looked scandalized that Dick had even suggested it.

"I was proposing clarification of the rules, not the elimination of the competition!" Jason said.

Damian nodded. "Agreed. I will not lose by a technicality."

"Technicality?" Dick groaned. "Ending the competition is not a technicality. It will just stop; it won't count anymore. Nobody wins and nobody loses."

"I'm willing to hear your proposals, Todd" Damian said flatly, dismissing Dick as he turned his attention back to Jason. "Drake, take notes."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Since when am I your secretary?"

"If we don't document the new rules, they will not be enforceable and the competition will be rendered invalid."

"Again … why do _I_ have to take notes? You can write."

"Fine! I'll take notes," Dick interrupted, surprising even himself. "Just stop arguing!" He reached out and plucked Tim's tablet from his hand, quickly switching over to the writing app. His youngest brothers looked equally unimpressed with one another, but neither protested Dick's actions.

"Right," Jason said, he sat up, dislodging the cat from his legs as he did so. The annoyed feline glared at him before primly curling up on the vacated cushion. Jason rubbed his hands together in an almost gleeful manner. "First rule: we are counting only occasions when we rescue someone from certain death or grievous bodily harm. Not paper cuts, or dehydration, or boredom, or anything like that. Just situations where, if you did nothing, that person would be hurt or killed."

Dick winced at the very prospect of tallying just how many times his siblings faced doom, but he dutifully noted the rule.

"And you can't count each portion of the rescue," Tim added. "Hypothetically speaking, if you disarm a bomb and unchain a person from a post, that still only counts for one."

"What if you save the hypothetical person from the hypothetical bomb and then a bunch of hypothetical gunmen come in and you save the person from them, too?" Damian mused. "Would that count as two?"

Tim sighed. "Yes, fine. As long as they are separate incidents and the gunmen storming in are not the same ones responsible for the bomb in the first place. If they're the same gunmen, the scenarios would clearly be connected and only count for one."

"This is going to be a weird rule," Dick muttered to Jason as he wrote out the provisos.

Jason nodded slowly.

"How about we agree that we can't delay rescuing someone in order to force them to acknowledge that they're being rescued? Can we put in something like that?" Dick asked. "This can't be allowed to get out of hand to a point where people get hurt because we're worried about a tally."

"Right! And you can't refuse help out of pride," Tim added, looking directly at Damian. "If you're in trouble and someone is there to help you, you have to let them."

Damian rolled his eyes.

Dick noted the rule. "Yes. I think we can agree that dying for pride is a bad plan."

"How about we don't allow people to brag about rescues until the contest is over?" Jason added. "Bragging is something you have to earn, after all."

"That's another point," Dick realized. "How long is this going to go on? You haven't set an end date."

"It has to be long enough to give everyone a chance to perform a rescue," Tim chimed in.

Damian scoffed. "If we have to wait for you to perform a rescue, we'll be doing this all year."

"How about three months?" Jason offered. "I mean, recent examples notwithstanding, we don't typically get into life-threatening danger on a nightly basis. It could be weeks before one of us needs a rescue. Timbo's right - we can't cut the game too early or not everyone will get a chance to play. We also can't go too long or it won't be fun anymore. Three months sounds like a good middle-ground."

When nobody argued the point, Dick wrote down the date. It wasn't too bad, really. It wasn't forever, and like Jason said, it wasn't as though they ended up in death traps every night. It was entirely possible that absolutely nothing bad would happen in the next twelve weeks. "Anything else?"

Damian shrugged, Tim looked hesitant, and Jason just leaned back on the couch.

Dick turned to Tim. "Go ahead."

Tim bit his lip and grimaced. "I think we need to know the stakes. I get that Damian wants me to clean litter boxes and you want hugs or something, but I have no clue what Jason is thinking and that means that I can't really decide if the rewards I'm considering are comparable."

Everyone turned to Jason who smirked at the sudden attention. "I'm still deciding."

Dick shook his head. "You are not. What are you thinking?"

Jason leaned forward, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I like your bike. I like Replacement's bike. I'd look ridiculous on Damian's bike, but in the interest of fairness, I could find something to do with his bike, too."

The reaction was no doubt exactly what Jason had hoped for as Tim and Damian both protested vociferously against Jason's proposal.

Dick glared at Jason, who grinned back.

"It's not really a fair trade, is it?" Dick reasoned. "I want your time, Damian wants your cooking skills, and you want our modes of transportation? What are you going to do with our bikes?"

"Nothing," Jason admitted. "I'd just like lending them back to you when you need to go fight crime."

"I think you need to rethink this," Dick replied. "It will be very inconvenient to hunt you down and get our bikes every time there's an Arkham outbreak or something."

"Maybe I'd leave them at the cave then, but you still have to ask to borrow them," Jason mused. "I'm still working out the details."

"Damian might let you die just you can't win and take his bike," Tim muttered jokingly, and Dick was already shaking his head.

"No letting people die!" Dick protested, though he knew that nobody in the room would ever do such a thing. "Definitely a rule! I'm going to underline that one even though I shouldn't have to."

"And what of you, Drake? What demeaning tasks have you decided upon in the unlikely event of your victory?" Damian's question called attention back to the teen.

"Nothing too difficult," Tim said. "For Jason, I'd like to see you update your files in the Batcomputer within 48 hours of completing a case. I mean _thorough_ and _detailed_ files, too. None of your usual ' _I kneecapped the gun-runner and got the weapons off the street; case closed_ ' kind of entries."

Jason snorted. "You want me to keep up on my paperwork?"

Tim shrugged. "It will make my life easier. I won't have to cross-reference all your files with updates from Gotham PD and whatever Oracle sends my way, so yes. I'd like you to keep up on your paperwork."

"What about me?" Dick asked curiously. Tim's demand sounded highly reasonable. Maybe this would turn out okay after -

"You can't tell me to go to bed anymore."

Dick could almost feel a full-body sigh grip him. "What?"

"If I'm working and I'm on a roll, you can't make me go to bed. No more turning off the computer, no more picking me up and carting me away, no more passive-aggressively telling me what time it is or how disappointed Alfred will be if I don't lie down. Just let me work."

"Let me get this straight," Dick frowned. "As your reward for saving lives, you want me to sit back while you slowly kill yourself by engaging in self-destructive habits?"

Tim seemed to consider his words. "It's not how I would have phrased it, but yes. Please."

"At least the only thing he wants you to do is _nothing_ ," Jason groused. "If you want, we can switch. You can write my files and I'll let the kid conk out at the computer every night. Win-win."

Dick didn't even bother glaring this time. Maybe he didn't want Tim to win after all.

"As for Damian," Tim said, turning to the youngest, "you have to be nice to me. All the time. No more insults, mockery, or name-calling. That's it."

"For how long?" the boy asked with a contemplative tilt to his head.

"I think we were going for six months?" Tim asked with a glance at Dick. When Dick nodded, Tim looked back at Damian. "Six months. And you can't just avoid me for all that time, either."

Damian scowled. "Your proposal is acceptable. You will not be winning in any case, so it won't be an issue."

"We'll see about that," Tim grinned.

"As it happens, I've rethought my own demands," Damian announced. "If I am to be humiliated by Todd and made to ask permission every time I wish to use my own property, I realize that my initial demands were not nearly severe enough."

"Wow. Things are going downhill," Dick observed dryly. "Whoever would have seen this coming?"

"When I win, Todd will be responsible for maintaining my motorcycle. For six months, he will keep it clean and in perfect working order, to be assessed following every single night of patrol. If you wish to spend time with my motorcycle, Todd, you will do so merely _wishing_ it was yours."

Jason looked unperturbed. "If you recall, kid, yours is the one bike I _don't_ have any use for. I was just taking it to be fair. Not like I can ride your shrimpy little bike anyway."

"As for you," Damian turned to Dick, who found himself dreading what his little brother was going to say now. His initial claim on Dick as a chauffeur had been nothing worrisome. Dick liked spending time with the twelve-year old, and going places together was hardly a punishment. Now, it seemed like Damian was on a bit of a rampage and there was no telling where things were going to end up.

"As for me?" Dick echoed.

"In addition to your duties as my chauffeur, you will also accompany me as I assess every animal shelter in the city to ensure they are suitable for the animals they house. I wish to make certain that no animal is left in a cage and that none are destroyed."

Dick blinked, a warm fuzzy feeling rising in his chest. "Dami, that's really great, little brother. Of course, I'll help you with that."

"And Drake will, of course, be cleaning litter boxes on a daily basis," Damian continued, "though he will also be assisting me in developing a program to assist low-income families with veterinary bills so they might keep their pets without economic hardships."

Tim looked mildly shocked, but he nodded. "I can do that."

Tim's brow creased slightly as he drifted into _Timmy-planning-something-in-his-head_ mode and Dick had a feeling that Damian's program would see the light of day whether or not he won the contest.

Then again, maybe that had been Damian's plan all along - even if he lost the contest, he'd get what he wanted. The kid was clever.

"Okay," Dick said with a cheerfulness he didn't really feel. "So, if I win, we watch my choice of movies for the next six months and I get all the hugs. If Jason wins, he's going to be insufferable about our bikes for that same amount of time. If Dami wins, we're looking after his bike and essentially revamping the animal shelters of Gotham while helping low-income families keep their beloved pets, and if Tim wins, we have to … do the work we're already _supposed_ to be doing, be nice to him like we _should_ already be doing, and let him kill himself through overworking, which is a terrible idea. Sounds right?"

Jason shrugged. "I might change mine."

Dick sighed. "Of course you might."

"I'll let you know."

"Of course you will."

"Oh, don't forget to add that rule about how we can't tell Bruce or Alfred," Jason said.

"Right, because that one won't come back to bite us," Dick muttered. He added the rule and looked over the list before nodding. "I think we've covered everything for the time being."

"All other rules are to be discussed in committee before being adopted," Tim added.

"Are we all agreed then?" Jason asked. "This becomes official once we're all on board."

Tim nodded. "I'm in."

Dick fought the urge to sigh again. He was doing far too much of that lately. "Yes. I guess I'm in. I already regret it. Dami?"

"I will win this competition," Damian said with a feral smile. "Prepare for defeat."

* * *


	5. Bad medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that this chapter deals with a made-up poison and its effects, but it's nothing graphic or excessive! (There's a teensy bit of coarse language in there, too - a single F-bomb)  
> Also, I have absolutely no medical knowledge whatsoever.

* * *

Dick's heart nearly stopped at Damian's strangled cry.

He couldn't help but turn from Augustus Hawthorne and look to where Robin was pulling a tufted dart from his neck, just below his ear.

Before Dick even realized what he was doing, he'd already pulled both eskrima sticks from his back and turned to Hawthorne with fury.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you! If you move, Robin is dead. There's more than one automated weapon in here!" Hawthorne had the nerve to smile as he stared down Nightwing with an almost flawless façade of calm. _Almost_ flawless, because Dick could see the sweat dotting the older man's face. Things hadn't gone according to the billionaire's plan, and now he was clearly trying to improvise.

"Where is the Batman?" Hawthorne demanded. He was older than Bruce, with white hair in a receding pattern around his head. His face contorted as he fought to maintain the confident image he had so clearly striven to portray. After all, who else would wear a three-thousand dollar suit to a throw-down with a couple notorious vigilantes?

Hawthorne had gone all-out. Everything from the silver-capped walking stick and the perfectly folded pocket-square, to the diamond tie-pin was in place and immaculate. His shoes were so shiny that even from a distance, Dick could almost see himself reflected in their dark surfaces and he'd had to fight the urge to hum ' _Sharp Dressed Man_ ' under his breath the first time he saw Hawthorne. He watched cautiously as the older man tried to calm himself by fixing his cufflinks.

His plan had been unclear from the beginning. He'd set up another bomb, this time a massive device which had been installed in the Gotham football stadium. With thousands of lives at risk, Batman had raced to the scene and left Nightwing and Robin to follow the rather obvious trail to Hawthorne's location - his very own research lab.

Now, however, it seemed that Hawthorne had indeed had some sort of plan known only to himself and things were not going well. His loss of control over the situation had definitely marred the power play he had been going for, but it didn't really matter - Dick wasn't easily impressed by displays of opulence.

Nor was he impressed by threats made against his brothers.

"What was on the dart?" Nightwing demanded, even as he moved to stand slightly in front of Robin to cover him from Hawthorne's sight.

"I'm feeling no effects," Robin reported quietly, but Nightwing was not comforted by the words. _Something_ had been on that dart, and there was no way it was anything innocuous.

"That? It's just a little concoction dreamt up by my team," Hawthorne said smoothly. "They're quite good at their jobs, which is fortunate for me, but less so for your little friend. Now, where is Batman?"

Dick didn't bother trying to hide the glare that crossed his face as he estimated the distance between himself and Hawthorne. The dart that had hit Robin had come from the side, which meant Hawthorne was telling the truth about there being an automated trap. The laboratory could be full of them. Hawthorne was at one end of the long room, just far enough away that any attempt to attack him would give him enough time to set off another dart, or anything else he happened to have on hand. And since they were currently in Hawthorne's own personal chemical-weapon-making playground, Dick wasn't about to lower his guard.

"I'll ask again, what was in the dart?" Dick's voice was iron and he ignored Hawthorne's question about Batman. He could feel his heart racing at the thought that Robin could be dying right beside him and he was helpless to stop it. The boy was showing no signs of distress, but if the dart was truly full of some brand-new toxin, it was highly unlikely that he had any immunity. Dick wanted nothing more than to race his little brother back to the cave and run every single test he could on him, but he had a feeling there wasn't going to be time for that.

"I'll answer you if you answer me," Hawthorne offered.

Dick fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Fine. You first. The dart?"

"It's a choice," Hawthorne replied flippantly. "A simple choice, really."

"Stop with the theatrics," Dick ordered through gritted teeth. "Just tell me!"

"Very well. That dart was filled with compound HH-36R. It's a particularly devious concoction that attacks the pain receptors of anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed to it. I confess that I'm not entirely certain how it progresses, but I would say that Robin has roughly ten minutes before he starts feeling intense agony unlike any other. Death follows shortly thereafter. It's really quite fascinating."

Damian straightened at Dick's side, clearly angered at Hawthorne's words, but he followed Dick's lead and held his place.

"You have an antidote," Dick surmised. "That's the choice?"

Hawthorne nodded. "You can play the hero and attack, taking me down and stopping me from unleashing any more of my bombs. Just know that, if you do, I will not tell you where to find the antidote and Robin will die."

"I suppose if I let you go, you'll give me the antidote. You think I would trust you?" Dick shook his head and stepped forward.

Hawthorne pressed a button on his cane and there was an ominous whirring noise near the ceiling. "Stay where you are, Nightwing, or I'll fire again. Perhaps you'd last long enough to stop me, but poor Robin wouldn't be able to take another hit."

Dick glanced at his little brother, who was being far too quiet for his liking. Damian's forehead was glistening with sweat and there was a tremor to his limbs that had Dick swearing under his breath.

"Now, where is Batman?"

Dick tried to let his usual cocky grin cross his face. "I wouldn't worry about him. Batman is currently disarming the bomb you left at the football stadium."

"That was supposed to by _your_ job!" Hawthorne sneered. "It was supposed to keep you and the other birds busy while Batman and I got a chance to speak face-to-face."

 _That_ got Dick's attention quickly. "That really was your plan? You honestly wanted _Batman_ to come here?"

"It was far past time we met," Hawthorne confirmed. "I've left several invitations, but he's always managed to send his sidekicks in his stead. My men have taken down two of your number; you would think that alone would have garnered at least a hint of anger from the Bat. I've set two bombs now, and I do not care about the human cost. I truly thought that the fact I was willing to go so far to gain his attention would make that meeting happen."

"So, you left him bombs as presents like a cat leaving dead birds?" Dick raised an eyebrow at the overdressed man. "As signs of your … affection? Um, no offence, but he's really not that into you."

Hawthorne was almost purple even before Dick finished speaking. "You are an ignorant fool! I'm not trying to _woo_ Batman! I'm here to challenge him!"

Robin let out a shaky snort. "I don't think you're going to be much of a challenge."

"Why would you want to challenge _Batman_?" Dick asked, silently agreeing with Damian's disdain.

"Wonderful. Now you've done it - he's going to monologue," Robin muttered. "You should have just taken the risk and punched him in the face to get it over with."

"Of course I wanted to challenge Batman! Did you think all of this was for nothing?" Hawthorne scoffed. "Did you truly believe that I didn't have an endgame in mind?"

Dick shrugged, trying not to let his concern for Damian affect his focus. "To tell you the truth, I was more interested in catching you; I left worrying about your motives to other people. It did seem odd that a man of your financial means and business clout suddenly decided to steal weapons plans and create chemical bombs, though. You had everything and now you'll lose it all. What could you possibly have hoped to gain from all this?"

"Send Batman to me and you can find out."

"Sorry, nope," Dick replied easily. He wasn't about to admit that the dampening equipment in Hawthorne's lab was quite effectively cutting off their comms. Even if he wanted to, he would have no way of calling Bruce to the site. "He's dealing with the bomb. We're here to deal with you."

"Batman should be the one dealing with me!" Hawthorne yelled. "I'm the one who planned it all. I'm the one who threatened all those people! Batman should be here to fight me! Not you! Not the _sidekicks_!"

"Okay," Dick said evenly. "First, we're not his _sidekicks_. Second, your plan to have quality time with Batman is fundamentally flawed. You gave him a choice - catching you or saving a stadium full of people from your chemical bomb. Why on earth are you surprised that he chose saving the people of Gotham over dealing with you?"

"Third, he has people to take care of the riff-raff for him," Damian added snidely. "He doesn't need to deal with you because he knows we'll do it for him."

"You're playing a dangerous game, child," Hawthorne replied, glaring at Robin. "How much time has already passed? Two minutes? Three? How much longer before you start weeping from the pain?"

"Why don't you give us the antidote and then you can tell us why you did all this?" Dick offered reasonably. "I'm sure Batman will be interested and maybe he can stop by after he's dealt with your bomb. If not, he can visit you in Blackgate."

"Blackgate!" Hawthorne scoffed. "That's hardly the place for one of Batman's rogues!"

Dick let out a slow breath. _Great_. He was dealing with a crazy billionaire with delusions of grandeur. "You'd prefer Arkham, I take it? Can I ask why? This is an odd career move at this point in your life. Businessman to terrorist to nemesis of the Bat?"

"Nobody even knows me!" Hawthorne spat. "I'm a billionaire, my name is plastered on buildings and products all across this country and still nobody recognizes my face! The lack of respect is appalling!"

Robin hunched slightly at Dick's side, his limbs trembling more severely. "You're joking, right? Maybe you should have hired a better publicist before you tried to murder people."

Hawthorne ignored the interruption. "That crazy clown, Joker, he kills people all the time and _everyone_ knows him. They all fear him and cower when he's loose; when he talks, people _listen_. Same thing with Two-Face, Poison Ivy, Scarecrow … when they walk the streets, people know their place. I _deserve_ that respect; I _deserve_ that recognition! And once I've gone up against the Batman, no one will ever forget my face!"

"You're seriously planning to kill people just for notoriety? So people will pay attention to you?" Dick asked incredulously. "You could have had that fame by making ridiculous purchases and dating supermodels! You didn't need to threaten innocent lives! You didn't need to shoot people, or beat people up, or hang a bomb in a stadium!"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Hawthorne said dismissively. "You're second-fiddle to the Bat and you'll never be more than that. I'm already at the top of my game and once I've faced Batman, I'll be in the company of the most feared rogues in Gotham's history! No one will be able to take that from me!"

"Batman takes down muggers, too," Dick pointed out, feeling anger rising within him. "It isn't all costumed villains and epic showdowns. Besides, you're going to be a one-hit wonder. Once Robin and I take you in, you'll be put away for a long time. Domestic terrorism isn't exactly a charge that will get you community service."

"No one stays imprisoned in Gotham," Hawthorne laughed. "I'll be back. I'll be feared and my name will be on everyone's lips!"

"You think Gotham cares about you? You think, after everything that has happened here, that you will be anything more than a blip on their radars?" Dick shook his head. Damian stumbled at his side, unable to suppress a cry of pain, and it was only the threat of the laboratory weapons that kept Dick from rushing at Hawthorne then and there. "Gotham won't remember you in a week, Hawthorne. You'll be nothing more than a footnote for a city of brave people who see scarier things than you on the way to the grocery store. No one will be living in fear of you, I guarantee it."

Dick caught Damian as the boy fell to his knees with a strangled gasp. Desperation welled up inside him as he looked down at his little brother.

Hawthorne hummed in mock sympathy, instantly drawing Dick's furious attention. "Perhaps you're right. Joker is already a more prolific killer than I could ever be. Others are more theatrical or obtrusive. I just need something that will make me stand out from the crowd."

Hawthorne toyed with the end of his cane for a moment before grinning at Dick. "If Batman doesn't feel that I'm worth his time, I will simply play with you until he takes notice. We're left with your original choice, Nightwing, only this time I make no promises of antidotes. It's here somewhere, of course, but I won't tell you where. The boy has maybe five minutes left, so you may have time to save him. You can explain your decision to the Bat and we'll see if he feels I'm a threat or not. Will you do the right thing and sacrifice Robin's life to stop me and save thousands? Or will you try to save Robin and live with the knowledge that all the people I kill from this night forward will be on your conscience? It's up to you."

Hawthorne stepped backwards, pushing his way through the lab door and there was a gentle whirring sound as the weaponry powered down.

"Robin!" Dick cried, falling to his knees beside his brother. He felt for Damian's pulse, and swore he realized just how quickly his heart was pumping. "Robin, you need to calm down. I'll find the antidote."

"No!" Damian rasped. His breath came in shallow pants as he grabbed Dick's arm before the older man could rise to start scouring the shelves. "You heard him … he'll set off another bomb. We can't call … for help. No time … have to … stop him."

Dick shook his head. "I'm not leaving you here!"

"Stop him and … come back for me." Damian's teeth were gritted in pain. The boy groaned and pulled himself up, rising shakily to his feet. "I'll look … You can still catch-"

Robin let out a low wail, and shoved Dick away.

Dick wasn't leaving his brother. There was no way -

"Do … your _duty_!" Damian growled. He pushed away from Dick and stumbled to the cabinets and managed to open them with shaking hands. "People are … going to die! Go!"

Dick wanted to scream, but he couldn't breathe. He needed to help Damian, but his stubborn, stupidly-heroic brother wasn't going to let him until Dick had done his duty. He wasn't even wrong - there were thousands of people out there in danger and Nightwing needed to save them, but there was a life right in front of him that needed saving, too.

Damian bit back an agonized moan. Dick's _brother_ bit back an agonized moan.

"Fuck _duty_!" Dick growled and he shoved Damian's shaking hands aside. He pulled out the vials of ominous liquid, searching desperately for something _anything_ that looked like a viable antidote.

Damian sank to his knees as he groaned. "No!"

"Sorry, but you don't get a say, Robin," Dick muttered. He pawed his way through the vials before moving on to the next cabinet.

Hawthorne could have been lying.

He was trying to be a super-villain. He wanted Batman to legitimize him as one of Gotham's rogues … he was probably lying. What if there was no antidote?

Damian was lying on the floor now, tears openly streaming down his face, and Dick felt frantic with the terror that overcame him.

"Hold on, Robin! Please!"

Nothing in the second cabinet. Dick's hands shook as he pulled out the last tray of vials. If it wasn't here, he was going to have to watch Damian die an agonizing and terrible death. Already, the boy's strangled sobs were sending fiery agony through Dick's body. He couldn't let it happen! He couldn't!

 _HH-36A:an_ …could _an_ stand for antidote? It was almost the right number …

He was so close! It had to be here …

Dick clumsily lifted each glass tube, hardly daring to hope and terrified that he would drop it -

 _HH-36R:an_!

He read the label quickly. If the tiny letters _an_ didn't stand for antidote, he could very well be subjecting Damian to another dose of the poison itself.

He sent a panicked glance at his brother's agonized body. If he was wrong, he was going to kill Damian with his own hands.

He couldn't stand by and do nothing, though.

Dick's hands shook and he forced himself to move. He grabbed a syringe from the cabinet and ripped it from the sterile packaging.

"I've got it! I have it, Robin, and I'll fix you, I swear!"

He dropped to his knees beside Damian, who was sweat-coated with his muscles tensed almost to the breaking point. The boy couldn't even scream anymore.

Dick didn't know how much to give, but he sunk the needle into the vial, and drew back as much of the liquid as he could in one smooth motion.

The only part of Damian's body that was exposed was his neck and head, and Dick didn't have time to bare his arm for the dose.

It had to go into his neck.

"I'm so sorry, little brother," Dick murmured, trying to soothe Damian's agony as he injected the unknown compound into his sibling's neck. "I'm so sorry."

The syringe dropped from his fingers, which were suddenly useless. Tears collected under Dick's mask and his breath came in shallow, heartbroken gasps as he tried to ease his brother's agony.

There was nothing else he could do except hold Damian's hands as the boy rode the waves of what was unquestionably one of the most horrific compounds Dick had ever encountered.

Every spasm and every truncated cry broke Dick like no weapon ever could.

"I'm here, Dami," Dick soothed, not caring about masks and identities in the face of his brother's suffering. "Stay with me."

Damian's body went suddenly limp and a jolt of unimaginable terror ran through Dick's blood. "No! No, no, no, no, no! Damian!"

He felt for a pulse, cursing for a moment before he finally felt it, faint, but present.

The boy's breath was shallow, and Dick watched intently, measuring the seconds until he was certain that both breathing and pulse were even. It wasn't enough to assuage his worry, not by half, but Damian was no longer in horrific pain.

Dick let himself cry as he gave in to the need to pull his brother into his arms. It went against every single first aid lesson he'd ever had, but he couldn't leave him to suffer on the floor another second.

After several minutes, Damian stirred, his gasps sounding like a child's after a sobbing fit. He reached up and Dick grabbed his hand desperately.

"Are you okay?" Dick's voice was throaty as he finally fought back his tears. He needed to focus. He needed to make sure …

Damian nodded shakily, still not speaking as he trembled.

Dick rose to his feet, lifting Damian's too-small form with him as he stood. Damian made no noise of complaint at being carried like an infant and Dick kissed his brother's forehead. "You're going to be okay. Everything will be fine."

* * *

In truth, it was many hours later before everything was _fine_.

Damian was safely ensconced in the medical area of the cave being fussed over by Alfred and was by all accounts recovering nicely.

The debrief with Bruce had been hard, but he hadn't argued about Dick's actions. Not one of his family members had so much as hinted that Hawthorne getting away was Dick's fault.

He had made the only choice he could have under the circumstances, Dick knew that down to his core, but part of him still feared the unknown consequences of that choice.

Would Hawthorne really kill thousands just to get Batman's attention?

If he did, those lives were on Dick's head for failing to stop him.

He sat by Damian's bedside, scarcely aware of the passage of time while his brother slept. Jason and Tim came, sitting quietly with him in his vigil. Bruce and Alfred were nearly constant presences as they monitored the boy, ran tests on the chemicals from Hawthorne's lab, and tried to cajole the others to go to bed.

Dick looked up at Jason and Tim. They had no idea just how terrible it had been to watch Damian's suffering, but Dick's brief report had been enough to make their faces crease with deep concern.

Tim's still-bruised face was turned to watch Damian, but Jason's gaze was locked on Dick. There was something altogether too understanding in his eyes. It was sympathy, concern, and the promise of murderous vengeance all at once, a feeling that Dick was not surprised to find that he shared.

He nodded almost imperceptibly at Jason and something eased in the other man's gaze. They were on the same page.

Hawthorne was going to pay.

"Dami?" Tim's voice startled Dick from his thoughts. It was the first thing anyone had said in a long time, and it was like being jolted from a doze.

Dick turned to see the youngest Wayne blinking up at them.

"Dami?" Dick said, reaching for his brother's hand. "Timmy, go get Alfred!"

Tim slipped away quickly.

"Congratulations," Damian rasped, his strained voice barely above a whisper.

Dick shook his head in sudden confusion. "For what?"

"You're finally on … the tally sheet." Damian's face bore the barest hint of a smile and Dick suddenly remembered the stupid wager and the fact that they were essentially betting on each other's lives -

"I knew you would save me." The whispered confession broke Dick's train of thought and he looked down at Damian's pain-free features. "You're too … sentimental."

There was no reproach in his tone. Instead, Damian sounded almost _fond_ , like he'd resigned himself to the illogical ways of his older brother who put family above all else.

"Always, little brother," Dick said, squeezing his brother's hand as Alfred, Bruce, and Tim returned to Damian's bedside. "Always."

They could worry about everything else later. Right now, he had more important things to deal with.

* * *


	6. Explosive encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pretty much kicked my butt. I re-wrote it twice and it just would not cooperate for some reason. In any case, here it is in its final, highly-imperfect form. There's also some coarse language (because it's Jason).  
> Thanks for reading and sorry about the delay!

* * *

Jason stared down his gun, levelling Hawthorne in his sights.

He had been so close to having everything go off without a hitch.

_So. Freaking. Close._

He'd allowed himself to feel that momentary surge of satisfaction. He'd let himself float on the belief that _finally_ the crazy bastard would answer for what he'd done. He would pay for every moment of agony that he'd forced Damian to suffer; he would pay for strapping Tim to a post and making him watch helplessly as the last seconds of his life ticked down to nothing; he would pay for the three days Jason had spent unable to do anything but lie on a couch as he recovered from his gunshot wound.

Jason was angry and he was more than ready to mete out justice. He didn't give a crap what Batman had to say about it. He'd worked for this moment; he deserved a little payback on his brothers' behalf.

After all, it wasn't just luck that had brought Hawthorne within Jason's grasp; it was detective work, too. People forgot that Jason was trained by the best. Even his own family sometimes forgot the fact that he was a better detective than every person in the Gotham PD. Then again, his family was made up of ridiculously competent investigators, so their sense of scale was perhaps a little muddled.

It didn't matter. Jason had known as soon as he'd laid eyes on a photo of the nondescript warehouse that Hawthorne was going to be lurking inside it. There was just something about the two-storey building that screamed 'crazy man hiding here' to him. So, when the family had been dividing Hawthorne's various real-estate locations to search for the missing billionaire-turned-bomber, Jason had laid claim to it immediately for his own.

The warehouse wasn't much to look at and appeared for all intents and purposes to have been abandoned for the better part of a decade, but it had a little _je ne sais quoi_ about it. Graffiti covered every portion of wall within reach of the ground. Thin weeds sprouted from the cracks in the old concrete walkway. There were no windows on the ground level, and those on the upper storey that weren't already broken had been painted over. The place was remote, standing just outside the city centre, but still close enough so a man of Hawthorne's ego wouldn't feel that he was running away. It looked entirely unremarkable. It looked like nothing at all would ever happen there.

In short, it was absolutely the epitome of the phrase 'a little _too_ quiet' and Jason had been willing to bet a week's supply of Alfred's post-patrol cookies that Hawthorne was there.

And he had been right.

_Good for him._

What he hadn't expected was that Hawthorne had been waiting for him - or rather, for Batman - and had rolled out the red carpet in anticipation.

So now Jason found himself staring down his gun at Hawthorne. He had rubber bullets, of course, since he wanted the man in pain, but wasn't quite at the point where he was seriously contemplating killing him. Hawthorne, on the other hand, was holding a dead man's switch and was quite proudly pointing out the fact that he'd rigged the place with explosives.

Because _of course_ he had.

Like Jason wanted anything to do with another explosive-laden warehouse. The only good news was that the billionaire didn't have any more of the toxic chemical that he'd used in the stadium bomb. A detailed examination had established precisely how much of the compound Hawthorne's scientists had produced, which in turn tallied precisely with the amount used in both the stadium bomb and at the Wayne Enterprises research facility. Bruce had been satisfied that no more had been created after the scientists had been informed of Hawthorne's illegal activities; it looked like the man was left only with regular explosive devices. Not that those weren't dangerous enough.

Jason clenched his jaw as he gripped his guns tightly.

All he'd wanted to do was lay down a beating and the stupid dead man's switch was ruining everything.

Hawthorne looked ridiculously pleased with himself for engineering a standoff, and Jason wanted to wipe the smirk off his face so badly-

"Are you going to call Batman?"

Jason snorted in surprise. "Wasn't planning on it."

Calling Bruce was absolutely the last thing on Jason's mind at the moment. All he had to do was bring Hawthorne down without making him drop the dead man's switch and turn the warehouse into an inferno. Batman wasn't needed. For that matter, Batman was probably a good twenty minutes away looking at some lame research lab in central Gotham. With any luck, by the time he got there, it would all be over anyway and Hawthorne would be nursing a couple broken bones for his trouble.

Hawthorne sighed. "How many times must I deal with the sidekicks before the real hero appears?"

"Wow, you really are a pretentious asshole, aren't you?" Jason replied. "I thought Nightwing already explained this to you - Batman doesn't give a shit about you."

"But he does give a _shit_ about you, does he not?" Hawthorne's face twisted as though swearing was physically repulsive to him. Maybe it was … rich people were weird about things like that.

Hawthorne continued. "Unless I see the Batman in front of me in the next five minutes, I'm going to blow this place sky high. That will undoubtedly gain his attention."

"You're crazy," Jason laughed bitterly, once again cursing his luck. Hawthorne was so obsessed with facing Batman, he was apparently not concerned in the slightest about staring down the Red Hood who was directly in front of him! All Jason had wanted was to cause the rich asshole some pain and now he was stuck listening to his entitled and condescending demands instead. "You're really threatening to kill yourself unless Batman comes to beat you down?"

"Not precisely," Hawthorne replied. "I'm threatening to kill _you_ unless Batman comes to beat me down. Welcome to your very own hostage standoff. You should call Batman."

Jason blinked. "Do you not get it? If you blow this place, you're going to die, too. That's a really stupid way to make a point."

Hawthorne smiled. "Unless I'm impervious to explosions."

 _Great_. Not only was Hawthorne crazy, he was _super_ crazy.

"I wouldn't really want to test that if I were you," Jason warned, trying not to sound as dismissive as he felt.

"I don't need to test it. I can feel it in my blood."

"Right," Jason intoned slowly. He needed to talk the old man down. Maybe he could still lay a beating on him afterwards, but right now the fact that Hawthorne was holding a detonator and believed himself invulnerable was making Jason more than a little nervous. "Okay, so you're impervious to explosions now. That's … totally normal. Really, though, you have to think about this still. If you blow us up - or just me, whatever - you won't have your little setup here for when Batman _does_ show up for your really cool epic battle thingy. What'll you do then?"

"If I kill you, I will have no further need for the bombs," Hawthorne answered. "Your death will be enough to draw the gaze of the Bat. I will win whether I blow you up now or use the bombs as leverage against Batman later."

The billionaire paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "For that matter, why wait?"

That was all the warning Jason had before Hawthorne dropped the dead man's switch with a gleeful laugh.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, though Jason knew that there were only seconds between the switch falling and the bomb letting out three ominous beeps. It was barely enough time for Jason to leap at Hawthorne in a flying tackle and try to roll him behind the nearest concrete support pillar.

And then there was nothing but horrendous noise and searing heat and the horrible, terrible feeling that Jason had been here before.

And it had killed him.

It took an eternity for Jason to open his eyes.

The flickering light of bright orange flames engulfed what remained of the warehouse - the wooden crates were old and dry, and succumbed easily to the hungry fire. From where he lay, Jason could see outside. The walls had been blown away in some places and in the areas where they still stood, they did so only precariously. The entire structure looked like a child's block tower, just waiting to fall and crush anything underneath. It was a miracle Jason was alive at all. He noted with a certain detached interest that the support pillar he'd sheltered behind was leaning at a very unsafe angle and the only thing holding it up was a highly-compromised wall.

The pillar was just leaning there.

Right above him.

He should probably move.

_Right._

He tried to sit up, instantly cursing at the sudden pain in his left shoulder. He reached up and felt the limb, letting out a groan as he realized it was dislocated. Jason let his head fall back onto the ground as he tried to catch his breath.

The building let out a long and ominous groan.

"Get up, get up, get up," Jason urged himself. He used his good arm to push himself into as close to a sitting position as he could manage before he let out a string of foul language that would have had him owing his trust fund to the swear jar if Alfred had been there to hear it.

He was screwed.

He was so, so, completely and utterly screwed.

His legs were buried under rubble and twisted metal fragments from the catwalk above, which had fallen in the blast. He could wiggle his toes, but he couldn't move his legs.

With his one good arm, Jason pushed at the debris, but it was no use. He had no leverage; he couldn't even shift the pile of crap pinning him to the ground in the burning freakin' warehouse.

And then he spotted Hawthorne.

The billionaire was clearly dead, his body partially buried under the same rubble that was trapping Jason. The man was apparently not as impervious as he had believed and Jason couldn't bring himself to feel badly about the man's fate. He just wished the would-be villain had been facing the other direction so his sightless eyes wouldn't be the last thing Jason saw before the building collapsed on him.

And that thought brought everything into a suddenly horrifying reality.

Jason would have been lying if he said that he wasn't more than a little terrified of being crushed, burnt, or otherwise killed in another warehouse bomb. He still had nightmares about the last time, and he wasn't even close to being ready to deal with it happening again. Except this time, there wouldn't be any resurrection. This time, if Jason died, he was going to stay dead and the thought made his breath come in short gasps. He had to fight to make himself calm down. He couldn't afford to let himself panic. He needed to get out and he had to think of something quick, before -

" _Red Hood? Can you hear me? Please tell me you weren't in there when it blew! Hood?_ "

It took Jason an embarrassingly long time to realize the sound was coming from the comm in his helmet. He swallowed dryly and forced his voice to sound calm. "Red Robin? Is that you?"

Tim's sigh of relief was audible even over the sound of the fire currently devouring anything flammable. It was getting a little close for Jason's liking.

"Where are you?" Tim's voice called, and this time, Jason realized he wasn't hearing it through the comms. Tim was nearby.

"Red? Are you here?"

"I'm here. I'm coming to get you." There was a scrabbling sound as Tim picked his way over piles of debris, but Jason could see the top of his head as he made his way into the burning warehouse.

"Over here, Replacement!" Jason called, raising his good arm to get his brother's attention. Tim was here. He wasn't alone and he had help now. He let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he'd get out of this all alive and in one piece.

"Hood!" Tim wasted no time rushing to Jason's side, dropping to his knees beside him as he immediately began assessing the trapped man's condition.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Jason asked.

"It wasn't fast enough," Tim replied. He clearly noted the dislocated shoulder judging by the wince of sympathy that crossed his face. "The place blew nearly six minutes ago. Emergency services will likely be here very soon. This far out, we have a little time before they get here, but we need to be gone before they do."

"Six minutes is still fast. Weren't you at the other site?"

"It was a bust. I was already on my way to rendezvous with you here when I saw the explosion. Are you hurt anywhere else?" Tim asked.

Jason shook his head slowly, trying not to feel nauseated at the movement. "Shoulder. Pinned legs, but I can still feel them. I'm a little groggy, though; it's hard to concentrate."

Tim nodded. "I'm not surprised. From the look of it, I think your helmet saved your life. It's got a massive dent, so you took a knock from something, but it's better than being dead."

Jason sighed. "Still might end up that way if we can't get out of here soon."

"The others are on their way," Tim promised, "but I'll do my best before they get here. Just stay awake, okay?"

The teen turned his attention to the rubble pinning Jason to the ground, purposefully ignoring the body of Augustus Hawthorne.

"You know the crazy bastard thought he was invulnerable?" Jason asked with a small snort. "Funny thing is, he was tired of dealing with _sidekicks_. He thought the explosion would get Batman's attention and yet, here we are. Instead of Batman, another sidekick comes to the scene and Hawthorne is foiled again. Bastard."

Tim let out a noise that could have been amusement or could have been simple acknowledgement. The kid was pretty intent on the debris, but Jason was certain he would appreciate the humour of the situation later - probably after everyone was safe and no longer in danger of being burned or crushed.

Speaking of crushed …

"The place is going to come down soon, Red," Jason pointed out. "We should probably hurry this along."

"Definitely hurrying," Tim concurred. "I just want to make sure that when I move this railing, nothing else will come down and crush you. It's resting on some precarious piles of debris, so if I don't do this right, it could go very badly."

If Jason didn't know better, he would have thought Tim sounded uncertain. His genius little brother very rarely sounded uncertain about anything, particularly things that involved emergencies. He was a cool head; he was logical and never second-guessed himself once he'd made up his mind.

But right now, he sounded a little less like a hyper-competent vigilante and a lot more like a seventeen-year-old kid whose brother was pinned under rubble in a collapsing building that was also on fire.

That fire was casting an angry orange glow on Tim's face as the teen seemed to finally make up his mind. He squared his shoulders and looked at Jason. "I'm going to have to stand on the other side of the rubble for this. When I move the railing, will you be able to pull yourself out?"

Jason nodded before remembering that nodding was somewhat painful. "Yeah, I can do that, kid. Don't look so worried. You've got this, okay? It'll be fine."

Tim frowned slightly, but nodded. The fire was getting closer, but neither brother commented on it.

The building made another pained growl as something shifted in the fiery heat.

"Right. Moving quickly," Tim muttered. He pulled out his grapple, moving to the other side of the debris pile as he did.

From his half-sitting position, Jason could see the line as Tim shot the grapple upwards. He wasn't certain what the kid was using as an anchor, but evidently something looked stable enough to support the weight of the railing. After another moment, Tim had apparently attached the other end of the grapple to the railing and was ready to go.

"I'll let this go, but if it doesn't hold, you're going to have to move quickly."

Jason gritted his teeth. He would be ready. "Okay. Let's do this."

Tim did a countdown from three and then the weight was gone from Jason's legs. The railing was pulled upwards and even as it was yanked away, Jason was doing his best to pull himself free of the smaller pieces of concrete that had come to rest on his limbs.

Tim lunged forward, using his bo as a lever to hold back the pile of crumbling concrete to prevent more debris from falling on Jason's legs. "Move! Hurry!"

With another tug, Jason was loose. He pulled his legs close even as Tim vaulted over the rubble to land easily by his side.

There was more groaning, this time from the pillar above them, and Tim was pulling at his good arm, yanking him to his feet. Jason teetered unsteadily, hating the dizziness that accompanied the change in position, but Tim didn't give him any time to acclimate.

The teen had Jason's arm over his shoulder and was propelling him relentlessly towards a hole in the wall. Jason staggered, nearly bringing both of them down as Tim was suddenly holding his full weight.

It didn't slow them for long. Jason managed to get his feet under him again and they were so close to making it outside and Jason could see the buildings across the street -

And then Tim pushed him.

One moment, Jason was stumbling along and the next he was falling forward onto the cracked concrete pathway outside. His shoulder screamed in pain as he hit the ground and Jason's breath left his body in one harsh _whoosh_. There was a small grunt as Tim's weight fell on top of him and Jason didn't even have a chance to protest that the stupid kid was trying to _shield him_ as the building finally gave up any pretence of stability and came crashing down behind them.

It was loud and horrible, and a sudden heat washed over the huddled heroes as smoke-filled air was forced from the collapsing heap of rubble.

There was a moment where nothing happened.

Jason blinked in surprise, half expecting to find himself buried once again in concrete and twisted metal, but there was only the weight of his teenage brother as Tim finally shifted off Jason's back.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked, his voice almost frantic. "Hood? _Jay_?"

Jason groaned and rolled onto his back. He reached up with his right arm and unlatched his helmet before letting it drop beside him. "This sucks so much."

"I'm so sorry! It was coming down behind us and there wasn't time-"

"Red!" Jason said firmly. "Tim, just stop. You got us out of there. I will let you push me as much as you have to if it means that I'm not crushed in the warehouse that time forgot. Now help me up."

Tim frowned. "Maybe we shouldn't move you quite yet."

The sound of sirens made the decision for him, and Tim helped Jason up with obvious reluctance. He retrieved Jason's helmet before turning back to the older man and Jason took the opportunity to look his brother over. Tim was covered in dark soot and his hair was liberally caked with concrete dust, but the kid looked to be in one piece.

Which was more than Jason could say for the warehouse.

The building was a crumpled hulk of concrete and metal. It was immediately obvious that the ceiling had completely collapsed and anything that was still inside was now flattened.

Like Hawthorne.

And that could have been Jason.

_Again._

He felt a tremor run through him as he watched the escaping flames flicker over the wreckage.

That could have been Jason and it could have been Tim, too, if the kid had been even a minute later in getting there.

The sirens were getting louder and Tim ducked under Jason's right arm, slinging it over his shoulder to help his older brother into the nearby shadows. Jason squeezed Tim a little tighter than he needed to, suddenly very thankful that they were both in one piece.

"B should be here with the Batmobile in a couple minutes," Tim said, not commenting on the almost-but-not-quite-a-hug that he was receiving. That was good. Jason didn't really want to stop hugging him quite yet. "Alfred is going to be so happy to have you convalescing on his couch again. After all, you were such a _good_ patient last time."

Tim wasn't wrong. Getting shot a week before and then getting blown up almost immediately after being allowed back on patrol was not going to go over well with Alfred.

Jason let out a low groan. "Alfred's gonna kill me."

Tim shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about Alfred right now. This is the second time in a week that B has had to come pick you up. Now he's going to do that creepy thing where he's worried, so he just watches you silently when he thinks you aren't looking."

Jason almost stopped walking as Tim's words hit home. "Crap. Is it too late to go to a safehouse?"

Tim just laughed.

* * *


	7. A shocking night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait - this chapter fought back. The first version was six pages long and involved a killer robot, but I didn't like it, so I re-wrote it and ended up with nine pages of whatever this is. In my defence, I've been pretty stressed lately, so writing is so, so hard right now.  
> Also, I looked up a ton of information about electrical shocks for this. Then I totally dismissed it all for the sake of a good, old-fashioned, medically-ambiguous death-trap story. So … not accurate, but hopefully still fun?  
> Thanks for your patience and I will hopefully not keep you waiting so long for the next part!

* * *

Tim let out a muffled cry as another shock ran through him. Thankfully, it was only brief, not nearly as long or as painful as the last one, but it was enough to have him panting past the duct tape over his mouth.

He glared at Dick with as much ferocity as he could manage, which was actually quite a lot given his situation, and was slightly mollified when Dick looked suitably chagrined.

"Sorry, Red," the older man said. "I think I got the sequence wrong."

 _No kidding_.

Tim couldn't tell Dick exactly what he thought of his problem-solving abilities at the moment, so he settled for rolling his eyes and once again trying to find a way to escape the death trap he found himself in.

It wasn't looking good.

Tim was strung up in the centre of a cylindrical glass cage, like a tall tube. His arms were fastened over his head in heavy metal shackles suspended from the top of the cage and his bare feet were likewise fixed firmly to the metal floor - all the better for shocking a trapped vigilante. He had no slack in his bindings for movement and the tape over his mouth was wound around the back of his head, so he wasn't able to loosen it by rubbing it against his shoulders. In other words, he was completely trapped until his brother managed to find the correct combination to the glass cage and free him from the manacles.

Of course, it was never that easy when the Riddler was involved, so instead of simply having a puzzle to solve and a prize to win, there had to be an element of deadly peril. The Rogue had taken great delight in outlining the rules of his little game; his voice had been downright gleeful over the intercom as he issued his challenge. The entire scenario had the feel of a particularly sadistic escape room, which, of course, meant that was probably where the Riddler had gotten his inspiration.

To defeat Riddler's trap, Dick had to find the correct combination to unlock the door to Tim's cage. There were a series of puzzles in the room that would provide clues and, if Dick proved himself worthy, the final sequence needed to save Tim. If he made a mistake and got it wrong, or if he tried to tamper with the cage itself, a shock would run through Tim's body courtesy of the villain's current death trap. As was typical for a Gotham villain, Riddler hadn't mentioned that little fact until after Dick had already tried to open the lock and Tim had suffered a sizable jolt in response.

To make matters worse, the shocks would vary in intensity and duration depending on the mistake Dick made. There was no way to tell in advance if Riddler would believe an error to be worth a harmless little zap, or a long and agonizing shock, which meant that Dick's progress was slowed considerably in an attempt to avoid causing Tim pain. And finally, because Riddler was a complete jerk, the entire thing had an element of urgency about it due to the bright red timer counting down on the wall beside Dick. He'd been given forty-five minutes total, but had already used more than half of it. If Dick didn't solve the code in the next twenty minutes, Tim was going to get shocked again and it wasn't going to be just a little jolt this time.

It wasn't as though Tim could help, either. The tape around his mouth ensured that Dick was forced to go through the puzzles alone, with Tim's life hanging in the balance. Dick was more than smart enough to solve anything the Riddler threw at him; he'd been defeating the man since he was a child, but it didn't change the fact that Dick was completely unwilling to hurt his brother and it was slowing him down. He was over-thinking clues that normally would never have given him pause. He was hesitating before taking actions that, if Tim wasn't literally strapped to the buzzer, he would have tried just in order to whittle down his options.

Tim was really starting to hate the Riddler.

"Okay. This is fine," Dick muttered to himself. "I just need to take a second and think this over."

Tim nodded encouragingly. Dick really was doing well, but anything designed by Riddler wasn't exactly going to be an easy thing to solve. There were several different puzzles and none of them seemed connected to the combination to Tim's cell at all.

There was, in fact, very little about the room that was cohesive. From his vantage point, Tim could see the control panel in front of him, where Dick would have to enter the correct six-digit code to free him. There were three other tables, each one situated against a wall. Each table held multiple items and, from what Tim could tell, had multiple puzzles as well. He could only assume that there was something linking the three stations together and that whatever that link was would provide the combination to Tim's cage.

All of that was, of course, dependent on Riddler following some sort of logical order. The villain was always trying to create unbeatable puzzles, so there was always the possibility that the link would be so incredibly tenuous that nobody would see it until after it was too late.

If there was a link, Tim certainly couldn't see it yet, and he was running out of time.

"I followed the coordinates on the map," Dick mused, gesturing to the wall map behind him, "and they lead to Paris, France, which was one of the locations highlighted in the atlas on the table over there. There are twelve highlighted cities in the atlas in total, and I was thinking that if I solve the other puzzles, I can figure out which of those places are important. Maybe they combine to spell something, which I can convert to numerical values and input as the code."

He glanced up at Tim and frowned as though waiting for a reply.

Tim would have shrugged if he had enough range of motion. It was as good a guess as any, but it was probably a little too straightforward for Riddler.

Dick let out a small groan. "And that would have been great, but when I solved the water puzzle over here, I got the numbers _19111934_ instead of letters. If I'm supposed to convert letters to numbers to solve the combination, what do I do with these, the opposite? Making numbers into letters won't do any good on a numerical keypad, and even if it did, it seems to easy for him."

Tim couldn't help but give a snort of amusement as Dick unknowingly echoed his thoughts.

"They also don't work on the wall map as coordinates, so are they just a red herring making me waste time trying to find a use for them, or are they going to come into play when I solve another puzzle? I really wish you could talk right now; I could definitely use some help."

Tim wished that as well. That had unquestionably been deliberate on Riddler's part. Dick was essentially alone and under fairly considerable pressure. Tim's role was nothing more than to provide motivation for Dick to play the sadistic game, and if he'd been able to talk, there was a chance he'd be able to help Dick win. Riddler clearly didn't want that, so Tim got a face-full of duct tape to keep him from interfering.

It was overkill in any case. Riddler probably overestimated the amount of assistance Tim would have been able to offer. Locked away as he was, Tim couldn't very well help interact with the puzzles themselves; at best, he would have been able to act as a sounding board. It would have let him participate in his own rescue, at any rate, which would have been nice. Tim hated being helpless and had really hoped his days of playing the boy hostage were behind him.

"I managed to figure out the clue that gave me the combination to the lockbox," Dick continued, following the path he had taken. "The lockbox held the key, which opened the crate over here, and the crate held the weights and balances puzzle."

Tim nodded. That was the puzzle that had given Dick the first result comprised of exactly six numbers, 183414, which was the same number of digits as on the control panel linked to the glass door. Dick had tried the combination which had resulted in Tim's second electric shock of the day.

And that was where they were stuck. Less than twenty minutes remaining to solve a never-ending series of puzzles that left nothing but more questions in their wake.

Tim pulled at his cuffs, but they held firm. At some point, Dick was going to have to start taking chances with the combination, and Tim would much rather avoid being shocked again if at all possible.

Dick started pacing again. "Okay, okay, the clues. Paris … we've got the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre … France is six letters." He looked back to Tim. "There's an old phone on the table over there … maybe I'm not supposed to convert letters to numbers based on their position in the alphabet; maybe I'm supposed to enter the digits like you would on a phone. Each number button on the phone has multiple letters connected to it, so I could find the numbers that would spell out the word _France_."

It still seemed too easy to Tim. It was disregarding the other clues completely, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Dick was already miming pushing the buttons on the outdated phone as he figured out the appropriate numbers.

"Okay, it would be 372623. I'm going to try it, okay?" Dick was trying very hard to look at least slightly optimistic.

Tim wanted to tell his brother no, but they really were running out of time. He gave a short nod and tried not to tense up.

Dick turned to the control panel and entered the numbers before hitting the enter key - and Tim was in sudden and complete agony. He couldn't breathe as every muscle in his body tensed all at once. He couldn't tell how long the sensation went on; it couldn't have been more than a second or two, but it felt like an eternity before he was finally released and he sagged in his bonds. He panted breathlessly, wishing not for the first time that he wasn't gagged so he could get enough air.

Or maybe so he could swear out loud, because he _really_ needed to vent some frustration.

It took a moment for him to realize that Dick was talking to him and he sounded frantic. The older man didn't dare approach the glass that separated him from Tim, but it was painfully obvious that holding himself back was taking an almost superhuman effort.

Tim tried to nod to him, but he was pretty certain he still looked like crap. His feet were killing him and he dreaded seeing the inevitable burns that were undoubtedly covering them.

"Riddler! Enough of these games!" Dick shouted. "What the hell do you want from us? What is the point of all this?"

There was a loud click of the intercom before Riddler's voice rang out overhead. "Now, now, Nightwing, if I tell you how to do everything, you'll never learn to do things for yourself, will you?"

"What if I just tell you that you've won? How about that?" Dick replied angrily. "You want to be the smartest guy in the room? Fine. You're the smartest guy in the room. I don't care. You can win for all I care. Let Red Robin go!"

Riddler's answering sigh was long-suffering and overdramatic - the perfect affectation of an aggrieved Rogue. "Nightwing, this is not the first time we've played games together. I've never seen you give up before. You aren't losing your nerve, are you?"

"I'm losing my patience," Dick growled.

Riddler hummed dismissively. "Or, you just don't like the fact that it's _your_ hand inflicting the pain. You don't have to hurt your colleague; you won't hurt him at all if you solve my puzzles. I'll give you a hint, if you'd like, though it will cost the little birdie another jolt."

Tim rolled his eyes and tried to keep the trembling in his body to a minimum. Riddler's hints were likely to be useless anyway. He glanced at the timer - fourteen minutes remaining.

Dick glanced up and Tim could see he was similarly disinclined to humour the villain. "Don't bother, Nygma. I'll keep playing."

"If you're certain …"

"I'm certain. I'm also certain that when I get Red Robin out of there, you'd better start running, because I'm coming for you and you will not enjoy spending time with me."

Tim tried to breathe evenly. He couldn't let Dick see how awful he felt. His heart was beating too quickly and his limbs wouldn't stop shaking. He wanted out of the glass tube and he wanted to punch Riddler a few times. That would make him feel better.

Dick's fingers were tapping at the control panel as he frowned intently. "The random numbers from the water puzzle _19111934_ … I didn't do anything with them. There are too many for them to be the combination to the cage lock. Years, maybe … could they be years? Nineteen-eleven, nineteen-thirty-four …"

Dick glanced up at Tim, and the teen tried to look attentive as tremors ran through his aching body.

"Paris in 1911! That's when the _Mona Lisa_ was stolen! The other year would be 1934 - how much do you want to bet that date corresponds to some other significant event that happened in one of the cities highlighted in the atlas? And the six numbers I got from here," Dick pointed at the weights and balances puzzle, "maybe they aren't coordinates, but rather grid locations in the atlas - a letter followed by a number would give me a square on the map! I just have to change 183414 to a letter-number combination! Or more likely _two_ letter-number combinations for two different grid markers."

Tim nodded thoughtfully. Dick was onto something there. It was only a matter of determining the correct way to convert the number into the desired format. Tim had already forgotten the numbers Dick had just said and he berated himself for his lack of attention. Either his mind wasn't fully in the game, or the earlier shocks were frying his brain. Both options were bad, but there was nothing he could do about it except wait. Dick was already moving to the atlas.

"If I take the really simple approach and go with 18 representing the letter _R_ …" Dick trailed off. "That would leave me with R3 and the second one would be D14. I just have to find which pages of the atlas have a map with a highlighted city in those squares."

Flipping through the book took only a matter of seconds, but to Tim, unable to do anything but watch, it felt interminable.

"On this map, grid square R3 puts me in Belgium, and there's a highlighted spot there on Ghent. _Ghent_ _,_ _Belgium_."

Tim's eyes widened. Dick was definitely onto something. The _Mona Lisa_ was taken from the Louvre in Paris in 1911, and one of the panels of the Ghent Altarpiece was famously stolen from the city of Ghent in 1934 and never recovered.

"The second grid square is D14, and that takes me to Metropolis on this page." Dick stared at the atlas intently. "Some of the other cities include Oslo, Mexico City, Boston … those cities are all locations of famous art thefts! I'm betting if I'd finished all of Riddler's puzzles, the clues would have whittled the highlighted cities in the atlas down to these six in the end!"

Tim's heart raced. Dick was definitely right! Riddler was probably fuming; Dick had bypassed a large portion of Nygma's puzzles by cutting the corners like that.

Six cities, six famous art thefts, six digits in the code that would save Tim's life.

But what now?

"Could I put them in order?" Dick mused. "Maybe the order of the thefts is important."

Tim looked at the timer. Just under nine minutes remaining.

" _Mona Lisa_ was oldest in 1911, Ghent was next in 1934…" Dick trailed off. "Egyptian statues were stolen in the Metropolis Museum heist in 1967, and Aztec art was taken in the Mexico City robbery ... which was in the 1980s sometime, right?"

Tim nodded emphatically, once again very grateful for the fact that Bruce's training included studying crimes from well outside their own areas of operation.

"Boston was 1990, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist - it's never been solved. I still follow up on that one every now and again in case something shows up in Gotham," Dick said. He was clearly talking just to fill the suddenly tense silence, but Tim was nothing if not an attentive audience. "And the Oslo theft is definitely referring to _The Scream_ , though there were two thefts and multiple versions of the work. I _think_ that both thefts happened after the Gardner robbery. The last one was only about fifteen years or so ago, but the one before that … I'm not sure."

He hesitated.

"I'll put it at the end and hope it isn't a trap." Dick nodded to himself. "Right, so we have Paris, Ghent, Metropolis, Mexico City, Boston, and Oslo. If I take the first letter of each city, using the phone dial that would be … 746626. I'm going to have to try it."

Tim sighed. There was no way it was that easy. There were too many unfinished puzzles and there had never been enough time allotted to finish them anyway. Riddler had rigged it so Dick would have no chance of completing the entire challenge alone, and there was likely no way that the number he was going to enter would result in anything but Tim's fourth shock. The teen forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. He couldn't let Dick see how nervous he was.

Dick hesitated. "It can't be that. There's no point. Historical thefts? Past events with nothing to connect them except a phone-dial code? It's ridiculous."

Tim shivered and watched his brother as Dick stepped back from the keypad.

"Riddler's puzzles are always a way for him to brag and these thefts have nothing to do with him … and half of them have been solved!"

The timer continued to count down as Dick stared at the puzzles.

"The only thing they have in common is that they made international headlines. Stolen art, major cities …"

Tim looked up in sudden realization just as Dick raced back to the keypad. "If Riddler is trying to brag, maybe it isn't about how those thefts _ended up_ ; maybe it was just about the audacity of people committing them in the first place! Six major cities, and he's going to add himself to the list right here in Gotham!"

Gotham had six letters, it was a major city with an incredibly well-curated art museum. It also made more sense than using the letters of the other cities as a code, and Tim let himself feel slightly optimistic that Dick had solved it.

"Gotham in numbers using the phone code would be 468426," Dick muttered. He glanced quickly at the timer, which was down to under four minutes. "You really have to stop with the whole countdown-to-doom thing, Red. First the bomb and now this? Robin is never going to let you hear the end of it."

Tim snorted at Dick's attempt to break the tension. He wasn't wrong.

"I'm going to get you out. This will work," Dick said confidently. Tim wasn't sure which of them he was trying to convince.

Dick entered the code and Tim's world once again exploded into pain. He couldn't scream as his muscles tensed, but he was almost unaware that he wanted to. There was no real thought or reason in his mind; there was nothing but pain, pain _, pain_ -

And nothing.

Tim wasn't certain how long he dangled from his manacles. It could have been a few seconds or a few hours. His thoughts were slippery and evasive; he couldn't make himself think or understand anything beyond the lingering pulses of agony coursing through every part of him.

There was a voice talking to him, insistent and familiar … Dick.

Tim opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He blinked, hoping to clear his vision, but nothing changed.

Was he blind?

Tim panicked, pushing himself to support his weight on his trembling legs as he fought futilely with his shackles.

He couldn't see! 

His heart raced and he could barely make out a low keening sound escaping his throat from behind his gag.

He couldn't see anything -

"Red! Stop! It's okay! I'm getting you out, just hold on!"

Tim panted for air, unable to get enough through his nose. He felt dizzy and nauseated. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping something would come into focus. His fingers grasped for anything that might help get him out of the damned cuffs, but there was nothing he could do and he couldn't _see_ -

And a bright light speared into his vision, causing him to recoil in shock, not that he could go anywhere. He stared at the light in breathless hope. Was he actually seeing that? Was it real or just an afterimage from being electrocuted?

The light bobbed closer and Tim could have cried in relief when he realized it was a flashlight.

His brother was holding the light in his mouth as he worked to pick the lock to Tim's cage. The room behind Dick was completely dark, revealing nothing of what lurked in the shadows.

Tim turned back to Dick just as the older man dropped the lock and pulled the door open.

He was inside the cage so quickly Tim could barely follow his movements. Dick's arms were wrapped around Tim a split second later, pressing him into a comforting hug even before Dick made a move to release him.

Tim couldn't do anything but shake in his brother's arms. He couldn't control the painful spasms the rocked through him and he almost cried in relief that Dick was there. He was going to get him out. He wasn't going to let him get shocked again.

"It's okay, little brother, I have you."

Tim nodded and let himself tremble. He barely noticed when Dick's fingers pressed lightly against his neck to take his pulse. He didn't ask for the results, but Dick gave a soft sigh that could either have been dismay or relief. Tim didn't really care which at that point. He was so tired.

"I'm going to cut through the tape, Red," Dick warned. He set his flashlight on the ground and pulled out a small knife. He made short work of slicing the tape enough to peel it away from Tim's mouth and the teen couldn't help but take deep, slightly-panicked breaths.

"Just take your time," Dick soothed. "Are you okay if I do your feet first? I don't want you to have to balance or make you sit in an awkward position if I do your hands first."

Tim tried to speak, but he didn't have enough control yet, so he just nodded.

Dick worked quickly and efficiently to pick the locks holding Tim's feet in place and when he finally released Tim's hands, he was ready to catch his younger brother before he could fall.

Tim stayed silent as Dick swept him up and carried him from the cell. He felt hot and cold all at once, but it was too hard to make himself care. He was out and that was all that mattered.

"Your feet aren't as bad as I thought they'd be," Dick commented lightly. "They're going to hurt like hell for awhile, but you're going to keep all your toes."

Tim nodded slowly and took another shaky breath as Dick headed for the door. "How about … next time … _you_ can get tied up and … _I'll_ get the tally point?"

He tried to make his voice light-hearted, but he was just too damned tired to pull it off.

"Fair enough," Dick agreed, "though I'd prefer it if we just avoid death traps altogether."

Another thought struck Tim. "What happened … to the lights?"

Dick gave a small laugh. "I severed the wires coming from the back of your cage. For all the planning and time that he poured into his little trap, Nygma didn't totally cover the cables. I guess when I threw a wingding at them, it shorted everything else out, too."

Dick opened the door, letting the cool night-time air waft into the room.

Tim shivered. "What about … the code? It wasn't Gotham."

"No! It wasn't _Gotham_!" Riddler's voice sneered as the green-clad man pushed past Dick and entered the room, angrily twirling his cane as he moved. "How stupid are you to think that it was the _location_? Of course it's going to be in Gotham! That's where I operate!"

Dick took advantage of Riddler's distraction to set Tim carefully on the floor by the door, propped against the wall. He then raised himself to his full height and turned his attention to Riddler, who was still ranting about the stupidity of any vigilante who wasn't Batman.

"Alright then," Dick shrugged. "What was the answer?"

" _Museum_!" Riddler cried, raising his cane in exasperation. "I was planning a _museum_ heist! All the clues pointed to famous museum robberies and you only focused on the cities. I'm so disappointed. Batman would have gotten it."

Tim let out a snort. "I doubt that."

Riddler lowered his cane and peered over Dick's shoulder to where Tim sat propped against the wall. "Excuse me?"

Tim fought the tremors that wracked his body. "They weren't all … museum heists, so using _museum_ as your code is inaccurate. I really … expected more from you, to be honest."

"Not _accurate_?" Riddler seethed. His face twisted into utter rage and Dick was swiftly stepping between the Rogue and Tim, cutting off any possible action on Riddler's part.

It meant that Tim could no longer see Riddler past Dick's shoulders right when he was about to be taken down a peg. He wished he could see the moment of realization dawning in the villain's eyes, but he contented himself with the fact that it was going to happen regardless.

Dick laughed. "He's right, Nygma. You got carried away. They were all museum heists except one - the Ghent Altarpiece was stolen from a _cathedral_ , not a museum. There's no reason anyone would have gotten your code word - even Batman. It was a flawed puzzle."

There was a choked sound as the Riddler undoubtedly fumbled for a retort and failed.

Dick didn't give him a chance to gather his thoughts. "I wasn't expecting you to come and brag. You should have run while you had the chance, but you're here now and I did make you a promise that you wouldn't enjoy our next encounter."

There was a flurry of movement, almost too quick to follow, and when it was over, Edward Nygma was unconscious on the floor.

"That was very satisfying," Dick observed. He glanced back at Tim, who was trying and failing to make a proper fist.

"I think I might ... have to get some payback ... next time," Tim muttered dejectedly.

Dick finished securing Nygma before scooping Tim up again. "No offence, but I hope that won't be for a long time."

Tim nodded. "I can wait."

As they headed out into the cool night, Tim let out an exhausted sigh. "Red Hood and Robin ... really are going to be ... insufferable about this, aren't they?"

Dick nodded sombrely. "Probably."

"And I'm back ... in last place." Tim hated the fact that he sounded so despondent about it. It wasn't like he was trying to win or anything. It was a stupid competition anyway.

"It's just you and me here, little brother," Dick said quietly, hugging Tim firmly as the teen trembled. "They're both out of Gotham for the next couple days and Agent A can keep a secret. So really, we don't have to tell the others if you don't want to."

It was tempting. Tim was probably going to get ribbed about having been caught by Riddler in the first place, and even more teasing would result from him being solidly in last place in the stupid contest. Making it all go away was something his pained and exhausted brain latched on to with surprising ferocity.

But Tim wasn't the kind of person to run from reality. No matter if it was secret or not, he _had_ been caught, and he was most definitely bringing up the rear in terms of the tally. Pretending it hadn't happened wouldn't change the facts.

And Dick _had_ rescued him. Whatever else came out of the crappy night Tim had endured, his brother had saved him. He absolutely deserved the point in the tally. Denying him that for the sake of Tim's pain-induced self-pity would be a pretty terrible way to thank him.

"You're the ... best, you know," Tim said seriously and let his heavy head rest against Dick's shoulder. "But let 'em talk. I can ... take it."

He could almost feel Dick's answering smile. "Yeah, you can, little brother. Yeah, you can."

* * *


	8. Sleepless night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is not an unobservant man ...

* * *

Bruce sighed and pushed his bed covers aside. He wasn't going to fall asleep anytime soon; that much was painfully apparent after several hours of tossing and turning. There was too much on his mind and he just couldn't seem to let it go long enough to grasp any real rest.

He sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hand through his messy hair.

How could he sleep when his brain was constantly seeking answers? When his mind latched on to a puzzle, it wasn't a simple matter to just switch himself off in order to get rest. Usually he ended up resorting to meditation or foregoing sleep entirely in favour of working his frustrations out on a punching bag, but there was a part of Bruce that knew he wouldn't rest properly until he solved this particular mystery.

And he _would_ solve it.

Bruce did not consider himself to be an arrogant man, but he _was_ a realist, so, while he didn't exactly go around advertising himself as the _World's Greatest Detective_ , he would be hard-pressed to argue that he didn't possess a considerable level of skill in the areas of logical thinking and problem-solving. He did possess those skills, and that was just a fact; there was no point in denying it.

So, yes, Bruce - or perhaps _Batman_? - was a detective of the highest order and it was extremely rare for a puzzle to resist his determined efforts for long. He had taken down entire criminal organizations that had hidden themselves from the law-abiding world. He had faced villains of terrifying intellectual acuity and emerged triumphant. He had followed trails, reconstructed crime scenes, recovered stolen goods, and rescued kidnapped people.

He was a _good_ detective.

And yet somehow, all his skills and knowledge had not prepared him in the slightest for cracking the ultimate puzzle that currently vexed his mind - _just what the heck was going on with his kids_?

Really, they were perplexing at the best of times. All his studies into the human condition were next to useless when it came to raising children; it may as well have been uncharted territory for all the help that books had given him on the matter. Of course, his children weren't exactly textbook examples of the juvenile condition, but that didn't change the fact that Bruce was not used to feeling out of his depth.

There was always something new and surprising cropping up at inopportune moments - things that never ceased to hit Bruce, a man who prided himself on being prepared for any contingency, completely unawares.

It was usually something pertaining to emotions, and Bruce wasn't ashamed to admit that he wasn't very good at dealing with such matters. He'd been thoroughly at a loss throughout most of Dick's teen years, unaccustomed to the minefield of experiences that went along with a young man embarking into adulthood. His own formative years had been quite different from Dick's, which hadn't prepared him at all for navigating the world of teenage drama, angst, and heartbreak. And the conversations … how was it possible for two people to be in the same discussion and yet be on entirely different topics? Bruce couldn't even recall how many times he had believed he was advising Dick on something like school course selections only to find out later that Dick had actually been asking about dating ... and sometimes _vice versa._ It was like teenage conversation was a code to break and Bruce had been given the incorrect key to decipher it.

Bruce had done his best. He had allowed Dick to lead him through the experience just as much as Dick had allowed himself to be lead - more of a partnership in parenting than was typical in other families. That didn't mean that Bruce wasn't out of his depth most of the time; he absolutely was. He could freely admit that Alfred was likely the only reason that Dick had turned out as well adjusted as he had.

But Bruce wasn't stupid. He had emotions; he felt things deeply. He loved his children so fiercely it actually alarmed him sometimes. There were nights when he was completely and utterly exhausted, but he would be unable to fall asleep, tormented by the notion that something could happen to the kids he had brought into his world. They made him feel things so intensely, he could hardly stand it. He could move from extremes of incredible anger when they took unnecessary chances, to unbelievable pride whenever they succeeded at something difficult. Sometimes he could even go from one of those extremes to the other and back again in a matter of minutes!

They were the people who brought him peace when he was stressed and who stressed him out when he was trying to be at peace.

They were his strength and weakness at the same time; they could make him happy one moment and break his heart in the next breath. They were his sanity and yet they made him crazier than any Rogue in Arkham could ever hope to be.

They were nothing short of a wonder to a man who had never before believed that he could want to hug someone and strangle them at the same time, and yet he felt that way so often now it had almost become a state of being for him.

Bruce had been marvelling at the dichotomy of it all since Dick was small and he didn't think he'd ever figure it out.

That was why Bruce never really understood when people accused him of being an emotionless robot. If they only knew how hard it was to contain all his fear, anger, love, pride, and whatever that unquantifiable feeling was when he looked at his kids …

Well, Bruce wasn't a robot; he just had trouble putting emotions into words. He had contained his own feelings and hidden them away for so long, discussing them with others felt like exposing himself completely. It was like he was both making himself unacceptably vulnerable and running the risk of saying entirely the wrong thing at the same time. Something inside him hesitated at the notion of opening up to that vulnerability and it was difficult to overcome his natural hesitance.

He wanted to. He wished he knew what to say or do to help his family in all aspects of their lives. Feelings were just … _difficult_.

So when Bruce looked at his kids and saw them acting in a manner that was contrary to their usual behaviours, his first assumption was that the problem was likely emotion-based and was therefore completely outside his realm of expertise. After all, how could he talk one of his sons through dealing with emotions when Bruce's own method of coping was to crush his feelings into submission and lock them away until he could work through them? Even he knew that wasn't exactly the best approach if one wanted to raise a healthy member of society.

Usually, Dick handled such matters. His eldest was a godsend in that regard and had successfully wrought his own miracles countless times through some power known only to him. Right now, though, it seemed that whatever problem was plaguing his kids, Dick was smack in the middle of it and apparently was having absolutely no luck resolving the situation on his own.

Whatever the situation _was._

Their behaviour was slightly alarming. On numerous occasions, Bruce had entered a room only to have the boys fall immediately silent. They were all excellent actors, but Bruce didn't for one moment believe the innocent expressions on their faces. It was as if they expected him to accept that all four boys were just sitting together in the same room for no apparent reason. No fighting, name-calling, or angry glares. Just reading, texting, or playing video games that always seemed to be on pause when Bruce walked in.

It was highly suspicious.

There were whispered conversations and hushed arguments in quiet corners of the manor. There were tablets and phones being passed back and forth that were studied with an intensity that was usually reserved for case files and Arkham escapees.

Bruce was sorely tempted to hack their devices or review the security cameras, but there was still a small part of him that hesitated at violating his sons' privacy if it wasn't a matter of life-and-death. It was a lesson that had, admittedly, taken him a while to learn, but he understood their right to keep personal matters to themselves and he was loath to shatter their trust in him without good cause.

And Alfred would get mad if he did.

That didn't mean that he wasn't very sorely tempted, particularly since their secret, whatever it was, wasn't just limited to their antics around the house.

The boys had taken to modifying their patrol routes so they could be closer to one another while not actually patrolling _with_ one another. The exception was Damian, of course, who typically patrolled with Bruce, but had lately taken to accompanying Dick several nights a week. Nobody had commented on the altered routes and the changes had been subtle, but Bruce was, after all, trained in observation; he had definitely noticed.

He wasn't about to complain, though. On more than one occasion in the past few weeks, that proximity was the only thing that had saved someone from a potentially deadly injury. If his sons wanted to keep close to each other while doing their jobs, Bruce could only be secretly pleased that they were watching out for one another. It was almost as if they had become highly motivated to put all of Bruce's safety lectures into practice.

As odd as it was, how could Bruce possibly be upset by _that_?

But what if it wasn't that easy?

What if there was a _reason_ they were only one step away from implementing a buddy system? All of his sons were typically fiercely independent; why would they sacrifice that independence for closer proximity? Was there a threat out there which nobody had mentioned? Were the boys working on a case that they didn't want Bruce to know about?

Both options seemed unlikely. His kids were exasperating, headstrong, and prone to taking risks, but they were also professionals and held themselves to a high standard of excellence. If there was a threat out there, Bruce had to trust that they would inform him.

He'd checked the newest files on the Batcomputer just in case, and there was nothing that aroused suspicion. Nothing had been modified or deleted and there had been no external attempts to access the computer. If they were working a case or facing a threat in secret, they hadn't used the Batcomputer to research it.

There were also no unsolved cases in Gotham that had any connection to the modified patrol routes or the timing of said changes. If there was a reason the boys felt less safe now than any other time, it wasn't immediately evident to Bruce.

Bruce had even gone so far as to look at potential issues _outside_ of Gotham, paying particular attention to anything that might pique the interest of one or more of his kids. Human trafficking, drugs, animal abuse, corporate espionage, police corruption … nothing stood out as being more dangerous or wide-spread than usual.

There were no birthdays coming up or anniversaries of tragic events. Everyone seemed to be otherwise engaged in a normal, healthy routine. Well, except Tim, of course, who seemed to prefer working to sleeping most nights.

He was probably still up now.

Bruce sighed and pushed himself to his feet. It wouldn't hurt to check on the kids. After all, he had everyone under his roof for the night, something that never ceased to make him feel a little lighter.

He grabbed his robe and pulled it around himself to ward off the chill as he set out to indulge his sudden need to make sure his sons were safe and accounted for. At the very least, it would distract him from his worry.

He had barely made it out of his room before he noticed Dick in the hallway. His eldest son was coming out of Tim's room, quietly closing the door behind him.

"Everything all right?" Bruce asked softly.

Dick gave a small grin, not startled in the slightest by Bruce's unexpected presence. "Apparently, Timmy is under the impression that _resting_ and _working in the cave_ mean the same thing."

Bruce frowned. "I wasn't aware that he was at the point where he could wear shoes yet." It had only been two days since Tim's encounter with the Riddler and the teenager was already starting to get restless with his forced inactivity. He was recovering nicely from the shocks, but the burns on his feet would take a little longer to heal. They were still proving painful when he tried to walk or wear any kind of constricting footwear. It went without saying that Tim couldn't patrol if he couldn't wear his boots or stay on his feet for long periods of time, but that also meant that he shouldn't have been in the cave. It was cold down there at the best of times, and without proper footwear it would feel even colder. Tim was _supposed_ to stay upstairs until he could at least appropriately protect his damaged feet.

"Oh, he had some strong arguments about the benefits of his really thick socks, but I'm immune to that sort of thing," Dick replied lightly. "Besides, it's not like he can outrun me right now. Big brother prerogative says that I can pick him up and cart him off to bed whenever I want … at least for the time being."

Bruce caught the hesitation in Dick's voice as the younger man's smile faded slightly. "So, everything is fine, then?"

Dick pulled his gaze from Tim's door and looked up at Bruce in confusion. "Yes? As far as I know. You know how he is - he's going to keep sneaking downstairs whenever he gets the chance. At least until Alfred figures out a way to make him stop, though I think anything short of tying him to the bed is going to be less than effective."

"Given his training, I don't think that will work as well as you believe," Bruce observed dryly.

Dick shrugged. "You're probably right."

"That wasn't really what I meant, though," Bruce admitted. He hesitated as he looked at Dick, who seemed concerned at the apparent shift in conversation. "Everything is okay with all of you? It just seems like you boys have been … preoccupied with something lately."

He watched his son's face, but Dick's expression was open and neutral. He wasn't giving away anything.

"Is that why you're doing bed-check?" Dick asked. "There's nothing weird going on here other than the usual Gotham-induced craziness."

Bruce hummed in response. There was no reason to doubt Dick, but he wasn't entirely convinced. It was probably an emotional problem, then. He'd been dreading that. Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly. "You know, if you ever need to talk about anything, I'm available."

Dick's face lit up and he grinned broadly. "I love it when you do the uncomfortably-supportive thing! It's fantastic!"

Bruce bit back a sigh of relief at Dick's reaction. It was clearly not as bad as he'd feared if Dick was smiling. Bruce rolled his eyes as some of the tension left his body. "It isn't, really."

"Oh, it definitely is!" Dick replied. "You always look so awkward and unsure, but that's what makes it so good. Talking about feelings scares you more than the worst Rogues in Gotham, yet you still try sometimes. Even if you kind of suck at it, it's how you show you care."

Bruce snorted. "Your support is noted."

Dick laughed softly. "Nothing is going on that you have to worry about. It's all fine, B."

With that, Dick stepped forward and wrapped Bruce in a tight hug. It didn't matter how many times Bruce had been the recipient of such hugs, they always managed to take him a little off guard. Somehow, they slowed his normally quick reflexes, making him contemplate the correct action instead of just _knowing_ what to do by default.

It didn't matter. Dick always knew it took Bruce a second to respond and hug back. He always made sure to give Bruce ample time to figure out what he needed to do and he always managed to time the hugs to last just long enough to avoid being awkward.

Bruce really didn't deserve his eldest son.

He held Dick for a moment, feeling that familiar-yet-unquantifiable feeling rise in him again - that intangible sense of something that was far beyond what he used to identify as mere love. He held his son in his arms and just let himself breathe.

Dick pulled back and graced Bruce with a smile that was far too perceptive. "Have a good sleep, B."

"You too."

Dick disappeared into his room, leaving the hallway silent in his wake.

Bruce quietly checked on the other kids before returning to his own room for some much-needed sleep. It was only after he had settled himself under his covers and allowed his eyes to drift shut that he realized what Dick had said.

His eyes snapped open and he stared at his dark ceiling in dismay.

_Nothing is going on that you have to worry about._

That didn't actually mean that nothing was going on, just that there was nothing that Bruce should worry about. That seemingly-innocent choice of phrasing could be boiled down to two things: something _was_ going on and Dick didn't want to talk about it.

It went without saying that being told not to worry about something by one of his kids only made Bruce worry _more_.

And suddenly he was right back where he started - lying in the dark wondering if it was acceptable for him to hack his sons' personal devices to ensure they weren't involved in something dangerous.

Maybe he should just talk to Alfred …

A beep sounded from his phone where it rested on his bedside table and Bruce sighed. Nothing good ever came from alerts in the middle of the night.

The red letters announcing an Arkham breakout swept any thought of sleep from Bruce's mind and he pushed his covers aside for the second time that night.

As much as it pained him, his sons would have to wait.

* * *


	9. Night Terrors

* * *

"Nightwing," Damian cried, trying to get Grayson to look at him.

His older brother was on the wet ground, not moving his head even as the rain poured down onto his upturned face. His forehead was furrowed and his jaw was clenched so tightly that Damian was worried he was going to crack some teeth. Shivers wracked Grayson's tense form and he rocked slightly as he fought to draw in a full breath.

Damian knelt beside him, not caring about the puddles or the general disgusting nature of a typical Gotham street. There was no time to be concerned with such matters; Grayson had been dosed with fear toxin and he needed the antidote immediately.

How Crane had even gotten his nightmare-inducing concoction so quickly was worrisome. The man had been one of the many escapees from Arkham scarcely twenty hours prior and yet he was already running around Gotham in full Scarecrow gear and was apparently once more armed with toxin. It could only mean that he had more stockpiles of the compound hidden around the city than Batman had originally thought.

It didn't matter right now, though. Damian reached into his belt and pulled out his vial of antidote, wasting no time in administering it to his older brother. Even as he knelt in the rain and tried to shield Grayson's face from the downpour, Damian allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

It wouldn't take long for the older man to shake off the effects of the toxin. In fact, it was an exceedingly easy save as rescues went. It was one more mark for Damian's already-impressive tally and he was back in the lead. He couldn't wait to inform Todd.

Grayson getting dosed was, of course, not an optimal development. It had allowed the Scarecrow time to escape and continue on with whatever mad scheme he was developing. At the same time, Damian had administered the antidote in a very timely fashion, which would ensure that his brother was not suffering the effects for long. It was as good an outcome as he could hope for under the circumstances.

Every member of the family had been under the influence of Crane's creation at least once, and it was not an experience that Damian wanted to repeat. In truth, it wasn't an experience he would wish on anyone.

It was more than just experiencing the horrible things that one saw while fighting the toxin; it was the fact that a simple gas could render nearly anyone completely helpless in its wake. It did more than show you your darkest nightmares and make you believe they were reality - it stripped you bare, made you vulnerable, forced you to address all the hidden truths that you had assumed buried so deep within yourself that no one would ever know they existed.

Fear toxin made you scream and beg, it made you curl up and want to hide. It was a complete loss of control and it was humiliation at the whims of a madman who took joy at spreading misery in his wake. It was every single thing that Damian never wanted to experience ever again.

Damian hated Crane. He hated what he had done to others in the past and he hated the fact that he had nearly subjected Grayson to it again.

_Nearly …_

The Nightwing mask wasn't enough to hide Grayson's torment as he began to react to things that weren't really there. Small gasps became panting breaths. Shivers became full-body shaking as terror gripped him.

Damian blinked down at Grayson in growing worry. He shouldn't be getting worse. He'd gotten the antidote … he should be improving. He should be getting up soon, brushing off the event with a unsteady smile and a terrible joke before they rushed off to give Crane a beating he would not soon forget.

Damian had been planning that beating for the past several minutes and was looking forward to it.

But Grayson was not improving. He quaked and gasped and rolled onto his side, grasping at the filthy puddles with an outstretched hand.

Something was wrong.

Damian reached out and tried to take Grayson's pulse. The older man let out a heart-wrenching wail and tried to crawl away, clearly caught in the throes of something awful. Damian frowned and batted away Grayson's weak attempts at resistance.

"I'm here to help you, Nightwing. You're going to be fine."

The words obviously didn't reassure the vigilante. His heart was racing, and his cries were becoming more distressed. The antidote wasn't working.

"Robin to Agent A." Damian hadn't wanted to call the cave, but if Grayson wasn't improving, there wasn't much he could do about it in the street. He needed help.

"Red Robin here," came the answer. "Agent A is assisting Batman in navigating the sewers."

Damian bit back a groan of annoyance. He had wanted Alfred's competent and calm demeanour; he didn't want _Drake_. He could hardly request that Alfred change tasks, though. Father was hunting Killer Croc through the labyrinth of tunnels under the city and any wrong turn could mean stepping into an ambush. With Drake currently benched due to the injuries he had sustained from the Riddler, he was the only one in a position to assist.

Damian would just have to make do.

"Nightwing has been dosed with fear toxin. I administered the antidote immediately, but it does not appear to having any effect."

"Crap," Drake muttered. "What's his status?"

"Compromised," Damian reported flatly. "His heart rate is elevated and he's unaware of his surroundings. I believe the hallucinations have already started, and he doesn't appear to recognize me."

That last one actually hurt a little bit, much to Damian's surprise. It wasn't Grayson's fault, of course, but he'd always assumed that it would take more than a little gas to make his brother forget him.

Drake let out a concerned breath. "Okay. We need to get him back here as soon as possible. I'll have Agent A advise Batman that I'm redirecting the Batmobile to your location."

That was enough to have Damian scowling. Crane was still out there and he was armed with a toxin that was apparently unaffected by their antidote. Going back to the cave was giving the villain even more time to set up a foothold somewhere and probably find a way to acquire more chemicals for his toxin.

"How the hell did Crane get his hands on toxin so quickly?" Drake muttered. "Does he have a stockpile somewhere?"

Damian wasn't certain if the older boy was talking to him or not, so he didn't bother answering. He laid a hand on Grayson's shoulder, trying to mimic the comforting gesture that the other man had used on him countless times. Judging by Grayson's sudden scramble to get away, Damian could only assume that his attempt fell short.

"No!" Grayson cried. His voice sounded harsh and guttural, a far cry from his usual easy tones. "No! Please!"

The words sent a chill down Damian's spine and he held up his hands in a nonthreatening motion. "Nightwing, it's only me. I'm not going to hurt you."

He should have seen it coming; Grayson was, after all, a fighter. One moment, Damian was trying to soothe his terrified brother and in the next, said brother had kicked him in the head hard enough to send him reeling backwards.

Damian hit the pavement with a harsh grunt, already scrabbling to shake off the surprise and get to his feet.

"Robin? What just happened?" Drake's voice sounded concerned.

Grayson was running. Damian fought off the dizziness that the unexpected hit had caused and counted himself lucky that Grayson hadn't hit him straight on. Such a blow would have broken his nose rather than just inflict what was likely to be a massive bruise.

"Nightwing is attempting to flee," Damian reported, choosing to gloss over the kick to the head part; it wasn't important. "I'm in pursuit."

Normally, Nightwing was a difficult man to follow, let alone to catch. He was quick and agile, and had been raised to use the shadows to their full advantage. On a normal night, even a small delay in the chase might have resulted in losing sight of him completely. As he raced after his brother, Damian could only acknowledge that this was not a typical night.

Grayson had not attempted to flee to the rooftops. Instead, he was staggering as quickly as he could down the centre of the street, dodging unseen opponents and lashing out in clumsy and uncoordinated attacks. Far from showing his usual grace, Grayson was stumbling and nearly slipped on the wet pavement several times before Damian caught up with him.

"Nightwing!"

"No!" Grayson spun, sending his fist swinging out in an attempt to bring Damian down. The boy ducked and the blow failed to connect.

"Nightwing, you're safe! I won't let anyone hurt you!"

"You're not real!" Grayson cried, his voice breathless in his terror. "I need to find him! I can't find him! They're killing him!"

Damian grabbed his brother's flailing arms. Grayson was beyond reason, so all he could do was play along. "Find who? I can help you. You just need to tell me what's wrong."

"So much blood … He's not dead; he can't be dead!"

The sheer agony in the words tore at Damian. Whatever the man before him was seeing, it was clearly horrific.

Grayson paused, listening to voices only he could hear.

"He's screaming," Grayson gasped, his voice barely above a whisper, like if he didn't say it loudly, it wouldn't be true. "He's not dead; please, tell me he's not dead!"

Damian shook his head emphatically. "No one is dead. Everyone is fine, Nightwing!"

Grayson looked at him then, his eyes still hidden behind his mask, but clearly looking directly at Damian. There was a brief moment of hope when Damian allowed himself to wonder if the worst was over and Grayson was regaining his senses, but it was short-lived.

"He's in so much pain. They killed him. He's dead, but death wasn't a release. He's suffering so much … he's still screaming."

"Who? Who is screaming?" Damian whispered back. He held no fear of ghosts, but the way his brother's face swivelled as though there were threats all around them still managed to make Damian uncomfortably aware of how many things existed without being seen.

"I failed him," Grayson breathed. "He's dead and I failed him. I should have protected him!"

"The Batmobile will be there in less than ten minutes," Red Robin said softly, clearly affected by the anguish in Grayson's strained voice. "You've got to calm him down, Robin. His vitals are going haywire."

Damian didn't acknowledge him; he kept his attention solely on the shattered man before him.

"He blames me," Grayson confessed. "He hates me and it's my fault. He hurts so much and I can't help him!"

There was no warning before Grayson sank to the ground again. Nightwing's shoulders hunched and he folded over on himself. His body shook and it took Damian a moment to realize that he was openly weeping.

"Please, please make it stop!" Grayson begged. Any tears streaming down his face were washed away immediately by the rain, but there was no denying the torment that he was enduring.

Damian froze. Seeing Grayson like that was unlike anything he could ever have imagined. His brother was heartbroken, lost, horrified, and suffering.

What could Damian do in the face of such an overwhelming reaction? It was not the way fear toxin normally worked. There was normally screaming, and fighting, clawing at the hands of those trying to help you … he had helped Grayson through it before. This was different. It was worse than any terror Damian had seen Grayson endure. It wasn't monsters under the bed or reliving his worst memory; this was something unfathomable to the youngest Wayne.

Whatever this new torture was, it had brought _Nightwing_ to his knees in mere minutes, shattered beyond repair as grief and agony overpowered him far more effectively than terror and panic ever had.

"Dami," Grayson whispered, his voice hitching as he struggled against his gasping sobs.

"I'm here, Grayson," Damian answered softly, ignoring the rule about using names in the field. Nobody was near enough to them to overhear and after Grayson said his name in such a broken manner, Damian didn't care about the potential risk anyway.

Grayson looked up and shook his head in what could only be described as inconsolable denial. "I failed you. I'm so sorry. Please make it stop!"

"You didn't fail me," Damian said in confusion. "You're going to be fine, you were dosed with fear toxin, but you're having an unusual reaction to it. That's all."

"I can still hear you screaming. I should have saved you. Why couldn't I save you?"

Damian's eyes widened as he took in Grayson's grief-stricken face and the defeated, exhausted slump to his shoulders. "Me? Grayson, I'm not dead."

"I'm so sorry, Dami! I'm so, so sorry!" Grayson was scarcely breathing, his shaking hands reaching up to clasp Damian's shoulders. "If I could take your place, I would."

"I'm right here," Damian protested helplessly. "Drake, what's happening? Why didn't the antidote work?"

"Uh, I won't know without samples and testing," Drake's voice hesitated on the other end of the comms; he sounded as shaken as Damian felt. "There must have been something different with the batch of fear toxin … maybe it was really old? It could have been from a stockpile he hid a decade ago for all we know; maybe as it breaks down somehow it affects the mind differently? Or maybe it was tainted with other chemicals? If it's undergone significant changes of some kind, that would explain why the antidote didn't work - it's not the same compound anymore. It may even be an entirely different formula altogether - something he had in reserve that we never knew about."

Damian watched in horror as Grayson gasped in tiny breaths as he wept in heartbroken grief. If he couldn't help him, his brother was going to pass out. If things kept progressing as they were, it might even kill him.

"This isn't fear," Damian whispered helplessly. "What do I do?"

"Damian, this _is_ fear," Drake said softly. "Maybe it isn't progressing like Scarecrow's usual concoctions, but that doesn't mean it isn't just as terrifying to Dick as seeing monsters coming out of the darkness to murder him. If anything, this is even more horrific for him. This is one of his worst nightmares, maybe even _the_ worst _…_ he thinks you're dead."

Damian couldn't speak. He sat on the rain-soaked street with one hand on Grayson's shoulder and he felt the heavy implication of Drake's words.

The mere thought of losing him was destroying his brother. Right before his eyes, he was witnessing the inconceivable depths of Grayson's love for him. He hadn't doubted that his brother loved him since Grayson was anything but subtle with his affections, but he had never even imagined that the truth would hit him in such a visceral manner.

Grayson was literally dying of grief right there on a Gotham street.

"He doesn't think I'm real." Damian felt tears stinging his eyes. "How do I help him? What do I do?"

"I can't take this, Dami, I can't …" Grayson begged.

"You can, Grayson," Damian growled in sudden anger. "You can take this and you will overcome it. You are _Nightwing;_ you're a former Robin, and you're my brother. You are the strongest man I know and you will _not_ fall to Scarecrow. I won't allow it."

"You're in so much pain-"

"I'm right here. The only one in pain is _you_ -" and the realization struck Damian like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't physical pain; it wasn't something that could be helped with a bandage or a pill. That didn't mean it wasn't a deep and piercing agony.

Memories lurched forward from his subconscious, fighting their way to the forefront of his awareness.

_Uncertain nights where he doubted his welcome in the family._

_Mistakes he had made with disastrous consequences._

_Horrible things he had done._

_People he'd hurt._

Every single time he'd been unable to work through his turmoil, Grayson was there. He'd used words at first, then small gestures, then finally strong hugs that promised warmth and safety and forgiveness.

Grayson had always managed to take the dread and anxiety that formed a pit in Damian's stomach and ease the sensation … ease the _pain_.

Damian knew he wasn't like Grayson; he couldn't just make people feel better. This was his brother, though, and he had to try.

He took a breath. "Grayson, listen to me. I swear to you that I am alive. What you're seeing is not real, but even if it someday comes to pass, you need to understand what I'm telling you. Whatever my fate is to be, I will _never_ blame you. It will never be your fault."

Grayson shook his head in denial. "I should have -"

"No," Damian interrupted firmly. "You can't give up. I want you to live. I want you to keep saving people."

"You're in so much pain," Grayson whispered brokenly.

Damian shook his head. "I'm not." He reached out and put his hand back on Grayson's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I'm fine, I'm here, and … and I love you."

He launched himself forward then, pressing himself against his brother's shivering form and wrapping him as tightly as he could in his embrace. Grayson was bigger than him, but hunched over as he was, it was no difficult task for Damian to envelop him and shelter him from the darkness surrounding them. He tucked his sibling's face into his shoulder, hiding his view in case any other ghosts were lurking nearby.

Grayson didn't struggle. His hands came up hesitantly and snaked around Damian's back before returning the hug with an almost frantic strength.

The older man shook as sobs once more wracked through his body and he held Damian desperately, never ceasing in his stream of heartbroken apologies.

Damian could do nothing but offer his own assurances and hold his brother as tightly as he could while he wept.

He couldn't have said how long they sat like that, huddled against the rain in the centre of one of Gotham's back streets, but Damian didn't move. Grayson's breath was coming in slightly less ragged gasps, and his pleas for forgiveness were finally starting to slow.

Drake's voice advised him when the Batmobile was arriving and only then did Damian allow himself to pull back from the embrace.

Grayson looked terrible. His face was puffy and red from his tears and he looked more exhausted than Damian could ever recall seeing him. His limbs still shook, but it was possibly more from the stress of his ordeal than ongoing trauma. The most important thing was that his heart rate had slowed enough that Damian was no longer worried about a heart attack killing him before he could get him back to the cave.

His brother's head lolled slightly on his shoulders in a clear indication that Grayson would not remain conscious for long, but Damian was nearly certain that the worst was past him.

"I need you to get up," Damian said quietly. "Can you stand?"

There was no verbal reply, but Grayson allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led to the car. It was no small feat to get the older man's uncoordinated form into the Batmobile, but Damian managed it.

He stepped back, staring down at Grayson's semi-conscious figure in the passenger seat.

"Robin, is everything okay?" Drake's voice sounded in Damian's ear once again. "Did you get Nightwing in the car?"

Damian frowned as he took in Grayson's rain-drenched features. "He's in the car."

There was a sigh of relief on the other end of the comms. "Good work; his vitals are looking better, but I'll feel better when Agent A has had a look at him. Bring him home and we'll get him fixed up."

Damian watched as Grayson's breath hitched again before he settled. His sobs had quieted, though he hadn't managed to fully calm himself even in his mostly-unaware state, but Drake was right - his vitals were better.

It almost hadn't been that way.

Damian felt a wave of anger run through him at what Scarecrow had done. The Rogue had taken Grayson's emotions and twisted them, laying his fears bare in front of the one person who was never meant to know them. Grayson had always tried to protect Damian; when he fully awoke, he would be horrified at what had happened. Damian was angry on Grayson's behalf - Scarecrow had humiliated him and hurt him and _made him cry_.

The anger turned to white-hot rage and Damian stepped back from the Batmobile. "I'm not coming back," he announced.

"Sorry?" Drake replied in obvious surprise. "Did you just say that you-"

"I'm going after Crane."

"Robin, you can't be serious! You can't go after him on your own!"

And he _would_ be on his own, Damian knew. Father was going after Killer Croc, Todd was seeking out Poison Ivy, and Drake could barely walk on his burnt feet. If Damian needed assistance, it would likely not arrive in time.

Damian didn't care. Crane would pay.

"Nightwing is ready for transport. You can bring the car home now." Damian said firmly.

"You don't even know where Crane is," Drake said, clearly trying to make his voice sound reasonable. "He could be ten blocks away by now."

"It won't be daylight for hours yet," Damian pointed out. "I have lots of time to look and Crane doesn't exactly blend in. I'll find him and when I do, I will make him regret everything he's ever done."

He pulled his comm out of his ear, cutting Drake off before he could respond, and tucked the device into his belt. He might not want to listen to Drake's arguments, but he knew better than to get rid of his link to the rest of the family. The comm would be there if he needed it later.

He turned from the car, making his way purposefully to a nearby alley with the intention of heading to the rooftops. He waited there, ensconced in darkness, until Drake eventually sealed the Batmobile and recalled it to the cave.

Grayson was safe; he was on his way to people who could help him.

And Damian was going to avenge him.

* * *

To be continued …


	10. Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait. It was a very rough week and this just took forever.  
> I'll try to be a little more speedy in the future ...

* * *

The apartment building was on fire.

Flames licked at the sky as they escaped from broken windows. Black smoke curled outward, though the smell hadn't yet started to make itself known at ground level. It appeared to have started recently and that fact gave Tim some small glimmer of hope that Damian was all right, though it wasn't enough to stop the tendrils of fear snaking around him.

Tim tried to remember everything he could about the derelict structure, hoping that it was still as abandoned as it was supposed to be. It had been condemned several years before, but that didn't mean it was necessarily empty of civilians in the form of squatters or gang-bangers.

It was certainly not empty of twelve-year-old vigilantes on missions of revenge.

Tim's heart was pounding as he ditched the Batmobile, parking haphazardly in an alley so he could make his way into the building as quickly as his injured feet would allow him. He ignored the shooting pain from too-tight boots on healing burns as he splashed through deep puddles. He didn't even notice the rain pouring down as he raced towards the location where his little brother's tracker blinked cheerfully.

Damian had gone after Scarecrow on his own less than an hour ago.

His tracker had stopped at this exact address just over ten minutes ago.

And now the building was on fire.

Tim hated the worry gnawing at him that told him he might already be too late.

Tim had followed Damian as soon as he could. Considering he'd had to wait for the Batmobile to return to the cave so he could assist Alfred with Dick's medical emergency, Tim had thought he was doing well to be catching up with Damian as quickly as he had.

It was suddenly painfully obvious that he hadn't been quick enough.

Tim swallowed a curse as he made for the nearest entrance in the form of the underground parking garage. The metal door was broken and hanging off its tracks, creating a narrow gap just wide enough for Tim to slip through.

He didn't have time to waste.

Every beat of his heart seemed to drum into him the stark reality that the building was on fire and Damian was inside. The odds of finding one kid in a building this size … Tim didn't even want to think about it.

Maybe Damian was fine. Maybe he was getting out even now and would scoff at Tim for rushing into a burning building for no reason.

He could only hope.

The dimly-lit underground parking garage would have been slightly creepy at the best of times, but circumstances had apparently conspired to turn it into straight-up nightmare fuel. Most of the lights were smashed, and those few that were still working seemed intent on flickering ominously. Tim was only mildly surprised that the power was still on; it was Gotham, after all. Some things just fell through the cracks.

The rain outside had found a way to drench the concrete, seeping down the ramp through the broken doors. The entire space held the distinct odour of dusty, wet cement.

And something else …

It smelled of fear.

Despite his desperate need to find his brother, Tim slowed in sudden caution.

There was a cloying stench of sweat and blood, an undeniable tang that spoke of horrible things having happened nearby.

Tim gritted his teeth. Whatever he was going to find, it was not going to be good.

He peered around the edge of the concrete ramp and bit back a curse as he took in the scene before him.

There were bodies everywhere.

From his vantage point, Tim noted at least a dozen in various poses that belied their agonized death throes. Some were covered in blood, others had clearly been beaten. Bloodied chunks of loose concrete gave silent testimony to the cause of at least some of the deaths. Tim could also pick out a number of guns and blades in the lax grip of some of the bodies.

It was horrific and Tim took a moment to swallow his anger at the senseless loss of life. It didn't take a detective to determine what had happened. A large canister was right beside the pile of bodies, looking exactly like the ones Tim had seen Scarecrow use in the past. The villain had been testing his concoction - he'd either rounded up his test subjects or found them already in the garage, but he'd exposed them to the gas and watched them murder one another in their panicked fight for survival.

To Crane, people were nothing but an opportunity to hone his craft.

He would have watched his victims as they suffered unspeakable terror and struck out against one another in their unsuccessful attempts to live. They hadn't stood a chance against the horrors concocted in their own minds and Tim had no doubt that Crane had loved every moment of their painful struggles.

So many people dead; so many people horrifically murdered.

And Damian was hunting their murderer somewhere in the building - a building that was burning to cinders around him.

Tim couldn't linger. He had to find his brother.

He tore his gaze from the bodies before him and hobbled to the stairwell, already cursing the fact that his feet wouldn't cooperate and let him move any faster. Every time one of his boots slapped against a step it sent a ripple of agony up his legs, but Tim gritted his teeth.

Damian was here.

The unconscious goon was the first clue that Tim had of his brother's whereabouts. The man was lying on the landing to the third floor, and an abandoned batarang was resting forgotten at his feet. Damian had taken the man down and moved on without pausing to retrieve his weapon. He had been in a hurry.

Tim reached for the door and pulled it open cautiously. The hallway stretched out in front of him in a narrow tunnel of mildewed carpet and peeling wallpaper. It was utterly silent. The fire was still above him and Tim had a feeling that wherever the most chaos was would be the best place to start looking for Damian.

At the very least, if his brother was anywhere near the flames, he was running out of time and Tim needed to get there as soon as possible.

Tim hesitated as he remembered the unconscious goon. He didn't have time to drag the man to safety, but he couldn't exactly abandon him to the fire, either.

Biting back a curse, Tim pulled out some smelling salts and held them under the man's nose. He waited only long enough for the stooge to regain some semblance of awareness before ordering him to get out of the building.

Really, the man was lucky the fire was preventing Tim from zip-tying him to a railing for his part in the massacre in the parking garage. Red Robin would ensure the man faced justice at some point, but it wouldn't be tonight.

Tim raced up to the next level, no longer caring about the man now scrambling in the opposite direction.

He had to find Damian.

He could see smoke billowing upwards into the stairwell. He was close.

When he reached the fifth floor, Tim knew he was at the right place. The stairwell door was hanging open; the hinges at the top had broken away and the heavy fire-door was no longer living up to its name. The smoke was thick and black, puffing its way through the doorway and into the shaft of the staircase.

Tim kept low and peered down the abandoned hallway. Flames licked at the ancient wallpaper and devoured the dry wood of the doorframes. The carpeted floor was smoking, though not yet on fire, and Tim swallowed the sudden fear that he was about to get trapped in something absolutely horrifying.

He had no choice.

Damian was in there. He was certain of it.

He pulled out his rebreather and steadied his nerves. Then Red Robin darted into hell.

Tim kept low, staying under the smoke even though his rebreather ensured that he had air … at least for the time being. His mask kept his eyes from stinging from the smoke, but his face still felt the intensity of the heat.

Several of the apartments were open to the hallway and Tim looked inside each one. He couldn't afford to make mistakes, but something told him that if Damian had ambushed Scarecrow somewhere, no one would have bothered closing the door behind them. He could only hope that he was right; the alternative was unthinkable. There wasn't enough time to check each unit, and kicking down doors would risk backdrafts, which could kill everyone even more quickly.

The noise was unbelievable as the fire consumed everything it could touch. The wood crackled and the glass wall sconces shattered as the heat overcame them.

And suddenly, Tim saw movement in front of him.

A figure was emerging from a unit several metres in front of him, hunched over and dark in the smoke-filled hallway.

Damian!

Tim wanted to call out to his brother, but the rebreather prevented him. Before he could fully close the distance, Damian recoiled and slammed heavily into the burning wall across from the door before sinking to the floor. A tall figure burst out of the apartment, rushing towards the fallen vigilante.

But he never made it.

Tim blocked his way, slamming his bo against the man's head and bringing him down to the smouldering carpet. A quick glance confirmed there was no movement in the room, though any person inside would be barely discernable from the smoke that was rapidly filling what little space wasn't on fire.

Damian was moving. He pulled himself to his feet and Tim's eyes went wide behind his mask.

Damian was bleeding from several lacerations on his scalp. What parts of his face were visible were already swollen and bruised. The boy kept his right hand tightly against his side as though shielding injured ribs, and he limped slightly as he made his way to Tim's side. Thankfully, he had a rebreather, but Damian was clearly in pain.

It didn't stop the younger boy from trying to push past Tim to re-enter the room.

Tim grabbed his cape and pulled him back, signalling for his brother to get out of the building. If there were still people in the room, Tim would try to get them out, but Damian was hurt. If he stayed, there was no telling how badly things would end up.

Damian shook his head signing emphatically that he was not going anywhere.

Tim wanted to press the point, but there really wasn't time to argue.

Tim entered the apartment and noted another unconscious goon on the floor sporting damage that spoke of Damian's rage. The man was also wearing a flame-thrower. Well, that answered the question as to how the fire had gotten started.

The man was huge and Tim had no clue how he was going to get him and the stooge in the hallway out of the burning building before the flames devoured everything around them.

Then he saw what else was in the room.

Canisters of fear gas lined the walls. There had to be at least twenty and the heat of the flames was already melting the paint off the side of the metal containers. Once the metal gave way under the heat, it would release the gas and there was no telling how disastrous the results would be once the unknown concoction interacted with the fire.

It looked like they had found Scarecrow's stockpile.

Damian pulled Tim into the room and gestured with a mixture of triumph and disgust at the figure lying bound and motionless on the floor near the window.

_Scarecrow._

Tim's eyes widened in shock. Damian had taken down Scarecrow.

There was no time to congratulate his brother. They had two unconscious goons and a Rogue to carry out of a burning building before the fear toxin was released into the mix or they all died from the flames.

Three tall, heavy victims. Two vigilantes with mobility-impeding injuries. Five flights of stairs to ground level.

It wasn't going to work.

Tim rushed back to the hired goon in the doorway and dropped to his knees. He pulled out the salts again, hoping that the man hadn't inhaled too much smoke already. If he could get even _one_ person conscious, it could mean the difference between life and death.

No response.

Tim bit back a groan of frustration. They were running out of time!

He glanced back into the room with the fear toxin, wincing against the heat. They needed to get out. Damian was sagging even more, his injuries clearly paining him. Thick black smoke roiled as it escaped through the broken window -

 _Broken window_.

A plan began to form in his mind and Tim quickly divested the goon of his flame-thrower before grabbing the unconscious man's legs. He dragged him into the room next to Crane, kicking the Rogue's bloody scythe out of the way so he could let the limp body flop to the ground. He then raced back to the hallway and latched on to the other man and pulled him into the room as well.

It felt like an eternity had passed, but Tim knew it had only been a matter of minutes since he'd first entered the burning hallway. Still, time was growing horrifyingly short as the fire spread and Tim was deeply concerned about Damian's wounds. It was unlike his younger brother to take a step back in any operation, even one as mundane as moving unconscious minions to another location.

He didn't have time to question it, though. He rolled the three men close together and pulled out his bola line. He wasted no time lashing their feet together as securely as he could.

Damian watched, but made no move to assist. Tim's worry increased.

He stood and looked out the window, cursing to himself as the thick smoke obscured his vision. He needed an anchor point …

_There._

Tim allowed himself a flash of optimism as he removed his utility belt and snapped it in place around the cable binding the legs of the villain and his hired muscle. He grabbed his grapple and took as careful aim as he could at the building across from them, aiming slightly upwards. The anchor struck solidly and held, and Tim would have let out a sigh of relief if he hadn't been holding the rebreather in his mouth.

He attached the line to the utility belt fastened to the unconscious men, hoping that the deceleration would be enough to stop them from splatting head-first against the pavement five storeys down. The three men would be over the optimal weight limit, which could mean a very rapid descent, but there weren't really any other options. They would absolutely slam into the building across from them as they swung across, but at least they probably wouldn't die from that.

In any case, their odds were better against blunt force trauma than they were against the burning building filled with fear toxin.

Tim fervently hoped the toxin would burn off rather than explode, but he knew Bats were rarely that lucky.

With the line attached to the anchor point and the bad guys, Tim hit the button to retract the cable. The men started sliding towards the window and Tim ducked underneath them to heave upwards until they cleared most of the frame. At that point, Tim clicked the button back and switched it to deceleration.

Then he pushed the villains from the window.

They swung across the alleyway without the benefit of bracing themselves and Tim winced as they slammed heavily into the brick wall. The belt held firm around their legs, though, and they began lowering to the ground. It was a bit faster than Tim would have personally preferred to fall head-first, but it was only five storeys and they were going slowly enough that they would probably get out of it with only minor injuries.

It was far better than they deserved.

Tim didn't wait to watch them hit the pavement. He was already turning back to Damian to get him to the window. They could escape using Damian's grapple, and their own descent would be far more controlled.

But Damian wasn't standing behind him anymore.

Tim felt a jolt of complete panic shoot through him as he saw his younger brother lying on the floor. His body was lax and his rebreather had fallen from his lips.

How long had he been down? How long had he been breathing the smoky air?

There was no time to assess his condition. Damian needed out _now_.

Tim grabbed his sibling and hauled him to the window. He groaned as he heaved Damian over his shoulder. The kid was still smaller than him, but he was catching up quickly; he wasn't as easy to lift as he had once been. Tim took aim with Damian's grapple and fired, ensuring the hook held firm before he took the leap.

He hit the wall feet-first to brace himself and was surprised by the sudden agony in his feet. He cried out, letting the rebreather fall from his mouth to land somewhere in the alley below. Tim clutched the grapple desperately as he panted, flicking the switch for descent as quickly as he could.

He bit back the pain and ignored it. He didn't have time for anything but Damian.

He detached the line and lowered Damian to the ground, not caring that the alley was filthy and the rain was still coming down in sheets. There was nothing he could do about that at the moment.

"Robin?" Tim gasped. "Hey, can you hear me?"

He checked his brother's pulse and was immediately alarmed. Damian had taken a beating, but surely that wasn't enough to -

 _Blood_.

Damian's soot-streaked red tunic was wet with blood, almost invisible under the filth.

Tim reached for his belt to pull out a pressure bandage, then cursed when he remembered he wasn't wearing it. He pawed through Damian's pouches until he found what he was looking for and fastened it firmly around Damian's torso.

He needed to get his brother back to Alfred. There wasn't time to waste. Tim raced over to the unconscious villains and grabbed his utility belt. He pulled out zip ties and made short work of securing the three men.

He would rather have just left them, but until he was in Arkham again, Crane was still a threat and Tim had to make sure that threat was neutralized. If Tim let him escape, Damian would absolutely take murderous revenge for his foolish actions.

He hurried back to Damian and once again managed to heave him over his shoulders. It was only then that Tim realized he could hear sirens. Either the response time was getting even worse for this part of Gotham, or the entire horrible experience had taken less than ten minutes.

Either way, Tim didn't care anymore.

He made his way as quickly as he could to Batmobile and tucked his brother inside. If he passed any cops on his mad dash back to the cave, not one of them tried to stop him.

* * *

They'd gotten lucky.

Alfred had wasted no time in tending to Damian's injuries while Tim alerted the police of the existence of the fear toxin stockpile.

He'd been too late on that count, though. It had exploded only minutes after Tim had fled with Damian.

Tim had anxiously monitored the emergency communications and listened with growing dread as responders described the explosion which had been followed by eerily-coloured smoke emerging from the apartments. No one was injured in the blast and there were no reports of anyone suffering the effects of fear toxin. After awhile Tim allowed himself to relax slightly.

They'd gotten off easy.

It was only quite a while after Damian had been stitched and bandaged and was resting in the medical bay that Tim realized what had caused his brother's wounds.

The evidence had been right there in front of him, but Tim hadn't connected the dots. He'd just kicked Crane's bloody scythe away so he could save a hired goon instead of _checking on his brother_.

He felt ill at the thought.

He hadn't even bothered to consider _why_ the scythe was bloody in the first place! Damian had been bleeding to death from the very first moment Tim had laid eyes on him and he hadn't even realized it.

Some brother _he_ was.

Tim wallowed in self-recrimination as he watched Damian. The younger boy was finally protesting the excessive coddling he believed he was receiving from Alfred and it was the best thing Tim had seen all night - Damian was alive and arguing.

Tim smiled faintly as Alfred walked past. Having settled his charges as comfortably as he could manage, the older man was apparently now intent on making certain they were properly fed.

Tim couldn't help but feel slightly guilty about adding to Alfred's workload. The medical bay was certainly a full room tonight.

Dick was sleeping peacefully in the bed next to Damian. He had regained consciousness briefly, but fallen asleep again soon after, still likely feeling the effects of the fear toxin, the antidote, and whatever sedative or medication Alfred had decided to use to keep him from suffering until his system was clear. Tim had already looked over Alfred's careful notes of Dick's condition and was relieved to find that he was expected to be fine in relatively short order.

Tim was sitting on a computer chair with his wrapped feet resting on the end of Dick's bed. Alfred had checked him over, making disapproving noises at whatever new damage Tim had done to his feet. Tim didn't really care what they looked like at the moment. He was too exhausted to check for himself and he had no intention of walking anywhere for the next few days anyway.

Damian, meanwhile, was leaning back against his pillows with a tight expression that belied the pain he was in.

Tim wasn't sure what to say to him. Despite the fact that Dick was safe and Damian had captured Crane single-handedly, the younger boy was clearly distraught. Tim was certain he knew the reason, but he wasn't exactly the best option for cheering anyone up. The best person for that job was currently in a drugged sleep and drooling slightly on his pillow.

"You did good work tonight," Tim said finally. He couldn't hide the weariness behind the words, but he meant them nonetheless. "Taking down Crane-"

"I wasn't fast enough," Damian interrupted. He rubbed his eyes, looking more like a weary toddler than a fearsome vigilante.

Tim sighed softly. "I saw what happened in the parking garage," he admitted. "It wasn't your fault."

Damian snorted and shook his head. He still didn't meet Tim's gaze. "Crane was watching them when I got there. The last one was still dying when I arrived."

Tim's blood ran cold at the thought of what Damian had seen.

"They died horribly and that _creature_ was watching it happen as if they were _nothing_. If I had been there just a little bit faster, I could have stopped it. If I'd been better at tracking Crane or taken less time sneaking in-"

"Then maybe he would have gotten you, too," Tim said firmly. "You saw his stockpile. If you hadn't caught him when you did, maybe he would have used all of that toxin tonight and killed even _more_ people. What happened was awful, but it wasn't your fault."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Tim bit his lip. He could understand the sentiment, but he wasn't certain it was the best course of action. He wasn't enough of a hypocrite to deny that he faced his own problems in much the same way, but he felt woefully unprepared for dealing with such pain in someone else. This was _important_ and he didn't want to screw it up.

He wasn't any good at this.

He wished Dick was awake or that Bruce was back from his sewer excursion. Apparently, Batman had successfully captured Killer Croc, but it would likely be hours until he made it home; certainly not soon enough to help Damian. Even Jason would probably be better at -

Okay. Maybe not _Jason._

Tim sighed. "Dami-"

"I guess we're tied now."

The sudden change in topic stopped Tim in his tracks. "Sorry?"

"You rescued me from a fiery demise," Damian admitted grudgingly. "You are now at two, as am I."

"You're talking about the _contest_?" Tim asked incredulously. "Now? Really?"

Damian finally turned to look at Tim. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. "I can either dwell on the reality that I didn't save those people in the parking garage, or I can distract myself until Pennyworth returns and gives me a sedative. I … prefer to focus on something else for the time being."

Tim swallowed dryly, hating the lump that formed in his throat. Damian was twelve years old. He was no more responsible for the actions of a madman than he was for hurricanes in storm season, but Tim understood.

Sometimes the pain was too fresh to be dealt with right away. Whether it was healthy or not, sometimes it was the only way to make it through.

Tim cleared his throat, forcing himself to push down his own feelings of failure and misery. "How do you figure we're tied?"

"You saved Todd after Hawthorne tried to kill him and you pulled me from a fire tonight," Damian explained. "That's two."

Tim nodded. "As much as I hate to admit it, though, you're still beating me. You're at three."

Damian's face twisted in confusion.

"Think about it," Tim shrugged. "You saved Jason after he was shot, you disarmed that bomb before it killed me, and you saved Dick tonight."

"I didn't save him," Damian muttered, looking down at his blanket. "I couldn't do anything for him except send him home before running off to get myself skewered."

"It's a completed rescue," Tim pointed out.

Damian bit his lip as a tear slid down his cheek. "It doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because _I_ was what was killing him in the first place!" Even Damian looked surprised as his words echoed around them. He sighed and wiped at his eyes again. "He thought I was dead and that my ghost was blaming him for it. He nearly died … he went through all that because he thought that I was suffering and it was his fault. How could he _think_ that? How could he believe that I would _ever_ blame him for that? How terrible am I that he thinks I would wish him ill from beyond the grave?"

More tears spilled from Damian's eyes and Tim couldn't hold back any longer. He made his way to his feet as quickly as he could and hobbled to his brother's bedside. He didn't let himself hesitate as he climbed up beside Damian and wrapped the younger boy in his arms. The fact that Damian didn't push him away spoke to the depths of utter misery the twelve-year-old was in.

"He doesn't think that," Tim said firmly. "In his right mind, Dick _knows_ you would never blame him. He loves you so much, Damian. You know how fear toxin works; you know how it twists things."

"It didn't take much of a twist to turn me into his nightmare," Damian whispered brokenly.

"That's not even remotely true," Tim argued. "Dami, do you not even realize what you did?"

Damian glanced over at him and Tim's heart broke to see his younger brother's red, tear-filled eyes.

"Damian, he was spiralling. His vitals were so haywire, I was terrified that he was going to have a heart attack before we could even get him back to the cave. _You_ stopped that. You calmed him down and bought him enough time to get back here. _You_ did that."

Damian shook his head, but Tim didn't give him a chance to argue.

"You pulled him out of a fear-toxin induced hallucination and you did it because of how much he loves you. Even under the influence of all that crap, he _heard_ you, Damian; he _listened_ to you. Even when the toxin was distorting every facet of Dick's reality, he picked out the real you and _that's_ what he clung to."

Damian shuddered slightly as he fought back tears and Tim tightened his hold on him.

"I need you to hear me, because I'm absolutely serious here," Tim said. " _You. Saved. Him_."

His younger brother gave a jerky nod and wiped at his eyes again. Tim didn't know if Damian believed him or if he was just nodding to escape the conversation. He took a deep breath and squeezed Damian again.

"You know what that means, right?" Tim asked lightly, hoping it was the right time to change the subject. "It means you're winning. You're at three. Last time I checked, both Dick and Jason were at two."

Damian scoffed. "Todd should only be at one, but he insists that getting me out of a locked room counts as a rescue."

Tim smiled and shifted to get more comfortable on the bed. "Well, you _were_ trapped and they probably would have come back and killed you. By the rules we set up-"

"I would have escaped in due course," Damian argued. His voice was still shaky, but he was clearly trying to work past it. "It was a pathetic grasp on Todd's part to obtain more points."

Tim gave a tight laugh. "Well, he doesn't like losing."

Damian settled back slightly, relaxing into Tim's arms as his body began to release some of its tension. He let out a wide yawn. "He has another few weeks to get used to the idea."

Tim hummed in agreement, letting his own fatigue wash over him.

Their conversation fell silent as they both drifted in that quiet place between sleep and wakefulness.

It had been far too close. Tim didn't want to think about what would have happened if he'd been even a few minutes later in getting to Damian. What would he have told Dick if his eldest brother had awakened to find out that his nightmare had become real?

Tim's arms tightened around Damian. They fought like cats and dogs most of the time, but the thought of losing him was like a physical pain.

Tim blinked back exhausted tears. It had been a very long and difficult week. No one could blame him for getting a little emotional.

Tomorrow, he would get Dick to hug the youngest Wayne until he believed that everything was going to be okay. Tomorrow, they could talk or cope or do whatever they needed to in order to make it through.

For tonight, though … for tonight, Tim just held his little brother and listened to him breathe.

* * *


	11. Hot commodity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it was a bit of a wait for this. Sorry.  
> Thanks for reading!

* * *

Jason stared up at the blurry figure above him.

Something was wrong, he remembered that much, but everything else was as foggy as his vision. His thoughts were scattered, flitting around inside his head like buzzing bees. Or maybe little birds? Probably tiny freakin' robins refusing to perch and just flying around as they banged on the inside of his skull … robins could be jerks like that.

That made sense. His thoughts were annoying robins.

Everything was confusing and slightly nauseating as he tried to move his head to figure out where exactly he was. He swallowed dryly to control his gag reflex.

Why did he feel so terrible?

He managed to move his head, but the change in perspective didn't help much - everything around him was dark and heavily-shadowed. All he knew for absolute certain was that, wherever he was, he didn't want to be there.

Something touched his face and Jason recoiled in surprise. He'd forgotten about the figure looking down at him and Jason felt a surge of adrenaline as he realized he was _lying down_ and someone was _standing over him_.

There were no scenarios in which that was a good thing.

His thoughts cleared slightly as adrenaline shot through him and the need to get away became overpowering. He pulled away from the hand on his face and was not reassured when he couldn't get far. He tried to move, tried to punch the figure, tried to _get away_ , but he couldn't move.

He was tied down.

That was very, _very_ bad.

Jason let out a feral growl and pulled at his restraints, thrashing madly. His limbs felt like lead weights and it took far too much effort to struggle. If he kept this up, he would exhaust himself before he could do anything to save himself, but he couldn't stop. It didn't matter that he was far too weak to free himself, he couldn't just lie there and do nothing. He tried to bite the hand on his face, aiming blindly at the fingers that rested on his cheek, and finally got the reaction he was looking for. The figure retreated slightly and even with his less-than-perfect vision, Jason could tell that the person was holding up their hands in a non-threatening gesture.

Perfect. Jason was tied down and his captor was trying to seem harmless. Like Jason was going to believe _that._

Was the person talking? Jason couldn't hear the words over the pounding in his skull, but it sure sounded like the person was trying to make a point of some kind.

Maybe that point was that Jason wasn't going to break loose on his own, which was a conclusion that he was arriving at all on his own, thank you very much. Even as he twisted his wrists in their bindings, Jason knew it was futile. He didn't have control over his body; there was no way he was going to get loose and take down a bad guy. That didn't mean he was going to give up. It wasn't in him to lie down and die, but things weren't looking good.

Jason blinked rapidly as his strength began to fade. He felt completely lost. His vision was crap, he couldn't hear very well, his limbs were too heavy, and he was strapped down in an unknown location with an unknown person looming over him.

His breath came in ragged pants and it was so much effort to focus his attention on the figure beside him. He had probably been drugged; it was the only explanation that made any sense at all.

"Wha' d'y wan'?" he asked breathlessly. Even _he_ was mildly alarmed at how slurred and thick his words were.

That was a bad sign.

The person leaned over again, this time getting far too close to Jason for his liking. His heart pounded and he tensed.

Nothing else happened. The figure was speaking and Jason could tell it was a man. The man didn't try to touch him or get any closer. He still had his hands up and slightly to the side. His body was a blurry mess of black and blue …

 _Black and blue_?

Jason blinked again, and the figure stayed perfectly still, probably fully aware that Jason was having trouble seeing him. He managed to make out a dark-framed face with a mask and Jason found himself sighing in sudden and intense relief.

It was Dick.

Whatever was going on, whatever had been done to him, Dick was there and he would fix it.

Jason sagged back and closed his eyes against the pounding in his head. He felt terrible. As his heart rate slowed, the pounding eased slightly and he was able to hear his older brother as Dick kept up a running monologue of concerned questions.

"I c'n hear you," Jason muttered finally. "Wha' hap'nd?"

"You got kidnapped," Dick replied in what was probably meant to be a soothing voice. "I was able to trace your emergency beacon and found you here. We really need to be going, though. Are you okay if I untie you now?"

Jason nodded, hating the drunken feeling of not being in full control of his body. Everything swam around him as Dick moved quickly to undo the straps holding Jason to the table. He was distantly aware of his brother tugging at the bindings, but his limbs were mostly numb.

"Wait …," Jason drawled. "I was kidn'p'd?"

"Yeah." Dick finished untying him and helped him sit up, carefully keeping one arm around his shoulders to prevent Jason from tipping backwards.

The change in position did nothing for Jason's nausea, but it did give him a change in perspective. He looked down at himself in surprise. "I'm in jeans?"

Dick gave a small huff of what might have been amusement. "You were grabbed in your civvies. Bad luck, little brother."

He looked up at Dick and was relieved to see that he could make out his face now. "Who?"

Dick shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is that you went to a bar in a bad part of town and something must have happened that made you activate your beacon. Whoever took you had you hooked up to an IV to keep you mostly under. I disconnected it, but I don't think the people who hooked you up are going to be gone for long."

Jason noted the IV pole beside his bed and frowned. Stupid drugs. He hated feeling helpless and scattered. It wasn't as bad as it had been a few minutes ago - already his nausea was fading slightly and his vision was improving - but it still wasn't good.

It explained his scattered brain, though.

Jason frowned. His thoughts were annoyingly slippery and difficult to pin down, but he couldn't remember getting kidnapped. It didn't seem like the sort of thing he should have forgotten. At the very least, he certainly couldn't remember doing anything in his civilian guise that would have put him on anyone's radar.

The last thing he remembered was grabbing a beer at a local bar. He had spent more than three sleepless days and nights hunting down Arkham escapees; he _deserved_ a beer, dammit.

After Dick and Damian had suddenly joined Tim on the injured list, it had fallen to Jason and Bruce to track the remaining Rogues. It had already been days of tracking, fighting, getting bandaged up, and going out to do it again. Though the majority of the escapees had been caught, there were still a couple out there, and not even Nightwing's return to patrol the night after his mishap had been enough to run them all to ground. Tim and Damian were unable to join them in the field, but even they were exhausted from long hours at the computers.

It just wasn't enough.

They still had so much work to do, but everyone had been so far beyond tired that they were in danger of making mistakes. Everyone had been cranky, sore, overworked, and prone to snapping at one another. It had felt like nothing could ease the deep-set weariness in Jason's bones that threatened to pull him under. He'd just needed to rest for a minute and even Bruce hadn't argued when Jason had finally announced that he was heading back to one of his safe-houses to sleep.

Maybe he should have just done what he'd said, but he'd wanted the sounds of life around him. He'd wanted to remember exactly why he was doing what he did - why he was spending those days and nights exhausted and beaten down. He'd just wanted a taste of life before he slept and went right back to the grindstone again.

He had been so tired, but could anyone blame him for wanting just a second of something normal?

Jason remembered stopping at the bar. He remembered breathing a deep sigh of relief as the sound of the drunken crowd washed over him and he blended into the background. Nothing had seemed off that he could recall … He'd found a solitary spot in a back corner, fully intent on keeping to himself before heading to one of his bolt-holes for a long-overdue sleep.

And then things got fuzzy.

"Jason?" Dick's voice interrupted and Jason opened his eyes. He hadn't even realized that he'd closed them.

"Hm?"

"We should be going now."

He was probably right. Jason hated to turn tail and run, but in his current condition, he was nothing more than a liability to Dick if it came down to a fight.

Jason turned to look at the room and found himself suppressing a shudder. It was clearly meant to be some sort of operating theatre - like the kind in every terrible horror movie ever.

There were small tables haphazardly loaded with scalpels and saws. A large light mounted to the ceiling looked like the dozens of other versions Jason had seen in hospitals over the years. Extra IV stands were placed in the corner and a large refrigeration unit with glass doors was clearly storing vials of ominous drugs or other chemicals.

There were several plastic lunch coolers piled on a table and Jason had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't meant for picnics.

He stared at the scalpels for a moment in horrified contemplation. "Wha' is this place?"

Dick hesitated, which was a really terrible sign.

"Hey, 'Wing?"

"I think it's an organ-harvesting ring," Dick admitted reluctantly. "I, uh … I saw some stuff in the other room that was pretty disturbing."

Dick getting disturbed by something was an even _more_ terrible sign. Jason didn't even want to _think_ about -

Wait …

 _Organ harvesting_?

Jason looked down at himself, running a clumsy, too-heavy hand over his torso in the sudden fear that he might be missing something important. He was surprised to note that he was missing his shirt, which was kind of important, but not as important as his internal organs.

He'd given Tim enough grief about his missing spleen in the past; the last thing he needed was his own list of pilfered parts.

"You're fine," Dick assured him quickly. "No cuts, no marks."

Jason snorted. Right. Not cut open yet, just kidnapped and drugged, so nothing to worry about.

Whoever had taken him had been planning on killing him and picking through his innards like he was some kind of black-market organ buffet and he wouldn't have been able to do a thing to stop them.

It was sickening.

What was worse was the fact that he was clearly not the first person to get grabbed. The set-up was well-stocked and that meant that they had likely been operating for some time. People were getting kidnapped and murdered for their organs and nobody in Gotham had noticed.

Maybe that ignorance was acceptable in regular people, but Jason wasn't a regular person. _Batman_ wasn't a regular person. How had they not noticed?

Jason's limbs were still heavy, but his mind was clearing rapidly now that he was free of whatever drug they had been pumping into him. The desire for immediate and violent revenge was rising within him.

How many people had already been killed?

Who was responsible?

Why had they grabbed _Jason_?

"They've got to … have records of some kind," Jason said gruffly. It was a fight to keep from slurring his words, but he was getting better at it. He just needed to be able to work his limbs and then he'd be good to go.

"There's a computer in another room down the hall," Dick confirmed. "I'll get you back to the cave and then-"

"No!" Jason protested. "If they come back and … find me gone, they'll just clear out and we … may never find them again."

"And if they come back _before_ you're gone, you could end up dead," Dick countered. He shook his head. "Sorry, Jay. Like it or not, right now you're in no condition to fight. You're also a civilian right now, which means I have to get you out of here."

Jason shook his head. "No."

Dick sighed. "We're wasting time. Will you _please_ let me get you somewhere safe?"

"What did you see that was so disturbing in the other room?" Jason asked pointedly. He already suspected the answer, but he wasn't above reminding his brother exactly what was at stake if they didn't do something _right now_.

He hated the haunted look that crossed Dick's face, but he didn't relent.

"How many bodies were there?"

Dick looked away and Jason knew he'd guessed correctly. Very little could put that expression on Dick Grayson's face, but murdered innocents were definitely on the list.

"We need to stop this right now."

"You can't even sit up on your own yet. If I leave you here to investigate -"

"Who said I was going to stay here?" Jason interrupted. "There's a wheelchair over there."

Dick sighed. "Jay-"

Loud voices sounded from down the hall, interrupting whatever arguments Dick had been about to make.

They were out of time.

"Sorry about this," Dick muttered. He grabbed Jason and heaved him off the bed, half-carrying him and half-dragging him to the wheelchair in the corner.

Jason found himself unceremoniously dumped into the seat and had to close his eyes to fight back the nausea from the sudden movement. His arms flopped over the sides of the seat and it was really only luck that kept him from sliding out of the chair onto the floor. Jason tensed as much as he could and fought the residual drugs in his system. He needed to be able to fight.

Dick had already drawn his escrima sticks and was taking up a defensive position by the door. Depending on how many people were out there, things could get messy very quickly.

Jason wished he had his weapons.

And his shirt.

The door opened and Nightwing sprang into motion. The first man was down before he'd even realized Dick was there. A solid hit left him falling face-down onto the concrete floor.

The second man also had very little time to react; he barely managed to choke out a curse and take a clumsy swing before he, too, was driven down.

After that, things got a little messier.

The next figures - two men and a woman - were bursting through the door with weapons drawn even as Nightwing was finishing up with the second bad guy. The men moved to engage, but the woman made her way briskly towards Jason.

Her face was set in a determined scowl and Jason cursed viciously as she darted behind him. There was nothing he could to stop her; as much as he hated to admit it, Jason was having far too much difficulty moving to do anything to fight her. He tried in vain to lean away as her left arm snaked around his throat and pulled him back. Maybe Dick had been right, after all. They should have just left when they'd had the chance.

The woman put her gun against his temple and Jason let out a frustrated sigh.

It was just one of those nights.

"Stop! Drop your weapons," the woman ordered. Her voice was low with the hint of a growl and something tickled at the edges of Jason's memories.

Dick had already knocked out the last two men, but he turned to her cautiously with his sticks held to the side. He looked non-threatening, but Jason knew all-too-well how dangerous his brother could be no matter what messages his body language was telegraphing.

"If you move, I'll kill him," the woman promised.

Again, her voice sounded so familiar to him …

And then it hit him.

_A blonde woman with a throaty laugh, offering a drink and some company._

_Coy flirting, a tight dress, and a tipsy smile._

_Jason, with nothing but a fake name and stilted conversation, giving his regrets, too tired to even contemplate taking her up on her proposal._

_Feeling dizzy after only two beers and realizing he was in trouble and needed help …_

"You were at the bar!" Jason exclaimed in sudden clarity. "You were hitting on me! You drugged my drink!"

Dick's head tilted slightly in surprise as the woman's grip tightened.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said with a bitter laugh. "The _bartender_ drugged your drink, not me. I was just checking to make sure you were alone and that nobody would miss you. I've seen hundreds of men like you. You're the kind of guy who drops off the map all the time - exhausted expression, worn-out clothes, drinking alone in the seediest bar in Gotham-"

"Oh, so this is all _my_ fault?" Jason retorted in disbelief. "Seriously? I worked a few long shifts and wore my comfy jeans, so suddenly I'm ripe for organ harvesting?"

"You're young and you haven't had enough time to destroy your liver yet. _That_ makes you ripe for organ harvesting. The fact that no one is going to miss you makes you the perfect donor for some _very_ wealthy clients. It's hardly my fault if your lifestyle means nobody will notice your death."

Jason opened his mouth to reply, but Dick interrupted. "Can we just move this along to the part where you take the gun away from his head?"

"So you can take me down and I can go to prison? I don't think so." the woman scoffed. "The surgeon and his team are on their way to take this kid apart. I only have to hold out for a few more minutes until they get here. Then we can have _two_ donors for the price of _one_. I'll bet you have a _great_ heart, Nightwing."

Jason couldn't see her, but he could almost hear the smile in her voice. She was literally talking about _removing organs from living people_ and she was joking about it.

Sometimes Jason hated people.

The woman gave a thoughtful hum. "For that matter, I could probably just shoot you right now. Most of your organs will still be viable by the time the surgeon gets here."

She moved her gun from Jason's head, turning her weapon towards Nightwing.

At that same moment, Nightwing threw one of his escrima sticks, aiming it so that it ricocheted off the wall and hit the woman in the back of the head, knocking her out instantly. She dropped heavily to the floor and Jason could hear her gun skitter across the concrete.

"Are you okay?" Dick asked as he retrieved his stick.

Jason nodded. "If she was telling the truth, we're gonna have company soon, though."

Dick hurriedly zip-tied the unconscious people. "I wouldn't worry too much. Batman will take care of them."

"He's here already?" Jason asked, almost dreading the answer. He had been getting along with Bruce quite well lately, but he couldn't help the swell of shame of having been caught so completely unawares. There was no way that Bruce wouldn't have something to say about that, and while the truth would have come out eventually, Jason wished he could have delayed the lecture a little longer.

Dick nodded and tapped the comm in his ear. "Apparently, a car just pulled up; it's probably the surgeon and his team. Batman is pretty angry, so they're in for a fun time."

Jason snorted humourlessly. "I hope they all end up with broken femurs."

"After what they tried to do to you? I'd say that's a given." Dick glanced around the operating room. "I don't think we're going to find your shirt in here. We can grab you a blanket from the car."

"I don't even care," Jason admitted. It didn't matter that it was still cold outside. He just wanted to leave and go somewhere where he could curl up and sleep.

"Are you okay?" Dick asked softly. He'd asked that question before, but there was definitely more to it this time. 

Jason considered his answer for a moment. _Was he okay_? Physically he was fine, beyond being numb and still unable to move properly, of course. Dick had come to save him before Jason had even been aware of what was really going on, so it wasn't hard to tell himself that he'd never been in any real danger.

Danger wasn't something that worried Jason on a typical day, anyway. It was more than that. People had been kidnapped and their organs stolen, and it had been happening in his city. It had only been a weird twist in fate that he had been taken as an unwilling donor and if it hadn't been for that, they _still_ wouldn't know anything was wrong.

He'd been so focused on the Arkham escapees that he'd never even noticed the plight of the people right under his nose.

It was unacceptable.

"I just wanted a beer," Jason admitted, suddenly feeling the exhaustion return. "I just wanted to breathe for a minute. For days, everything was just fighting Poison Ivy, and trying to track Two-Face, and the rest of you getting hurt with the whole Scarecrow thing … I was _tired_. I just wanted to go somewhere and have a freakin' _drink_ and then _sleep._ I wanted to blend in and be left alone; that's why I went to a dive bar in the first place."

Dick looked at him seriously. "You're allowed to take a break, Jay."

Jason shrugged. "Apparently, when I want to be left alone for a minute, I look like an unloved loner who nobody would miss."

The thought shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, but there was a kernel of truth in it. Jason had only recently rejoined the family and he didn't exactly have the best track record for keeping in touch. It wasn't unusual for him to drop off the radar for days or weeks at a time, so it was entirely possible that he could have been killed and discarded well before his family ever suspected that anything was wrong.

"You know she was full of crap," Dick said firmly. "It doesn't matter how worn your favourite jeans are or how abysmal your taste in bars is; we would know you were gone and we would look for you. We would _find_ you, just like we did tonight."

"My hero," Jason snorted with a roll of his eyes.

"Exactly!" Dick grinned, apparently not catching the sarcastic tone in Jason's voice. Or maybe he caught it and just didn't care. "And as your heroes, we are honour-bound to exact horrible, violent vengeance on your behalf, just the way you like."

"Probably not _just_ the way I like," Jason pointed out. His way probably involved more bullets than the other Bats would be comfortable with.

Dick nodded easily. "True. Would you settle for _almost_ the way you like? I have a feeling Batman is going to make certain that anyone who even _knows_ about this place is going to regret every choice they've ever made in life."

Jason shrugged lopsidedly. It was as good as he was going to get and he had to admit that Bruce was nothing if not thorough. Once he could move, Jason was going to be bashing a few skulls himself.

Dick checked the hallway again before wheeling Jason out of the room. They were moving quickly and it made Jason's head swim again. He closed his eyes to fight back the nausea; if he puked, Damian would never let him hear the end of it.

Speaking of Damian …

"Crap," Jason groaned. "You just got another point, didn't you? You're tied with the demon brat now."

"You know, it's funny how that's always the first thing you both comment on after a near-death experience," Dick commented. "You're totally fine with the _nearly dying_ thing, but the fact that you may not be winning the contest is apparently what keeps you up at night. I'm starting to question your priorities."

"Just starting?" Jason joked. Really, thinking about the contest right now was better than thinking about what had happened to so many people in the room behind them. Until he could go out and get a little vengeance on his own, tormenting himself about it was just going to make Jason angry without any way of releasing his fury. And he had every intention of releasing his fury.

"Why are we even doing this?" Dick asked. He stopped the wheelchair and moved back in front of it. "I don't want us to start seeing our lives as just marks on a tally sheet and I don't want us taking stupid risks just to win bragging rights. I can't help feeling like nothing good is going to come of this."

Jason nodded sombrely. "I hear you, but I disagree. Something good has already come of it."

"What's that?"

"You ever notice the kids aren't sniping at each other as much? It's like having the competition is giving them a different structure for their interactions." Jason had been pondering the change more than he wanted to admit over the past few days and while he couldn't be certain it was the case, it certainly appeared that way. "Most of their fights tended to come from bragging and snide comments. Now that they can't do that, they have to find new ways to communicate. Damian isn't as harsh and Tim isn't as defensive. It's making it easier for them to be around each other and they're starting to realize that they can actually get along if they aren't constantly needling one another."

"You think that's because of the competition?" Dick questioned.

"They've never really gotten along before," Jason reminded him. "They got off to a horrible start and that's a hard thing to get over. Now they're actually talking and the only thing that's changed recently is that we added a throwaway rule in a dumb competition. Say what you want about the contest, but it's giving them a reason to change the way they talk to each other and I think that's a good thing."

Dick didn't look entirely convinced.

Jason pulled out the big guns. "When I got back after the Poison Ivy thing, they were cuddled up together on a medical bed."

"What?" Dick's mouth dropped open and the look of shock on his face almost made Jason laugh out loud.

Jason sighed theatrically. "Cutest thing ever. Too bad you were all doped up and drooling through it."

"You got pictures? _Please_ tell me you got pictures! Why didn't I know this? Why didn't anyone tell me before now?"

"Tim moved before you woke up," Jason said. "After that, things went back to being stupidly hectic and I forgot until just now."

Dick groaned. "Damn!"

Jason watched in amusement as Dick moved back behind him and started pushing the wheelchair again.

"I get that you're not totally happy about the contest," Jason continued as they headed outside into the chilly night air. "I get that you hate that we're in danger in the first place, but that isn't really due to the competition. We'd be in that danger regardless of whether or not we're keeping track of rescues and it's only for a few more weeks. Nobody has done anything reckless in order to be a hero yet, so why don't we just let it play out?"

Dick let out a massive sigh. "Fine. It's only for a little while longer and I'm willing to give it a chance if you're so convinced it's good for the others. Just a warning though, if either one of them wins, the other is going to be very unhappy about it. This could still backfire spectacularly."

"I guess you'll just have to try and win then," Jason said lightly. "I know Tim wouldn't mind if you won and you're probably the only person Damian would accept in first place other than himself. It's probably for the best that you're still in the competition, though don't expect me to make it easy for you. I'm still in this to win."

"Right …" Dick replied with obvious reluctance as they approached the Batmobile.

Jason let his brother haul him out of the wheelchair and transfer him to the car. He looked up at Dick's too-serious face and couldn't help the feeling of fond exasperation that rushed through him. "Also, what kind of person do you think I am? Of _course_ I took pictures."

* * *


	12. Out of mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some swearing in this chapter.

* * *

Jason was minding his own business. Whatever the Replacement was up to, he really didn't need to know. He had a bowl of yogourt with sliced berries to eat and a documentary about sea-birds to occupy himself with for the time being, so Tim Drake was not even a blip on his radar.

 _Nope_.

He was not curious at all.

There was nothing at all odd about the fact that Jason was absolutely certain that Tim had headed out to a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises not even an hour earlier and was now suddenly back at the manor.

There was also nothing odd about the way that Tim hadn't even bothered to poke his head into the den to say good morning to Jason; he'd just rushed past the doorway like he was on some kind of mission.

There was _definitely_ nothing odd about the strange thumps and bangs that Jason kept hearing in the other room.

So, yeah. Not curious.

Not his problem.

Jason took another spoonful of berries and watched in unfeigned interest as a male frigatebird inflated its red throat pouch on the screen. It looked almost like it was going to pop its own throat with its beak …

A loud crash came from the other room and Jason was on his feet before he even realized he was moving. He raced into the hallway and his feet carried him to Bruce's study without his mind being consciously aware of his destination. It was only then that he realized he was still carrying his breakfast with him, but there wasn't any time to worry about that; he pushed the door open with one hand and peered cautiously into the room, giving a low whistle of surprise.

It was a _mess_.

Not just the kind of mess that came from several days' worth of paperwork stacked all over the place - that would have been normal for Bruce's desk. This was a complete disaster.

Jason stepped into the room, bypassing a haphazardly-strewn pile of books and frowning deeply at the sight of the bent pages. The bookshelf was bare, with every single book and trinket removed from its place and thrown aside without any sign of care.

As he walked further inside, Jason could see the drawers on Bruce's desk had been pulled free and the contents upended onto the floor.

Even the wall paintings had not been spared. One leaned precariously over the leather couch against one wall while the other was set flat on the desk. Jason could see the canvas bulging slightly from the pile of office supplies underneath it.

Most surprising of all was the fact that the wall safe had been opened and everything inside had been carted to the centre of the room. That was where Tim sat cross-legged on the floor, looking like a pre-schooler sorting through his crayons.

Except for the fact, of course, that Tim was a teenager in a ridiculously expensive suit and he was muttering intently over a pile of cash, antique jewellery, and investment documents.

Jason blinked at the sheer destruction Tim had apparently wrought in a matter of minutes. What the heck was going on?

Tim didn't even look up.

"What're you up to, Timmy?" Jason asked, trying to keep his voice light and non-confrontational. Clearly, something was happening that had the kid in a tizzy. He wasn't usually prone to random destructive tendencies inside the manor. _Outside_ the manor, of course, he was as bad as the rest of them, but none of them tended to bring that sort of chaos into Alfred's domain.

Tim kept muttering under his breath as he sorted the items in front of him in some way that made sense only to him.

Jason took another spoonful of berries as he watched Tim work. Was he sleepwalking or something? Tim went through bouts of insomnia that were practically legendary and he occasionally crashed hard as a result, but he'd definitely been awake when he'd left the manor that morning. He had certainly seemed awake when he'd returned, too.

"It's not enough," Tim announced finally.

"Nope … it rarely is," Jason nodded sagely. "What are you looking for?"

Tim shook his head. "I need _more_. This isn't good enough. It's nothing - it's worthless."

There was a small fortune on the floor in front of the teen and Jason frowned slightly. He really wished Alfred hadn't gone to the store; if anyone knew about the kid's weird habits, it would be Alfred. "Give me a second and I'll help you, okay?"

Tim didn't acknowledge him as he turned back to his sorted piles and started shoving them into a single large heap again.

Jason sighed. It was too fucking early for this. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Dick. With any luck, the older man was still around and could deal with whatever it was that was happening.

In the meantime, Tim turned his attention to the computer and Jason ate some more of his breakfast while he watched from the centre of the room.

"What the _hell_ …?" Dick's voice betrayed utter disbelief as he entered the study and took in Tim's efforts at redecorating. He was still dressed in sleepwear consisting of sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt. His hair was wild and Jason couldn't resist the urge to snap a photo of his brother looking utterly dishevelled.

Dick didn't even seem to notice as he surveyed the destruction wrought by Hurricane Tim.

Jason shrugged. "I have no idea what's going on. He's been busy, though."

Dick looked over and raised an eyebrow at Jason. "You're eating? Right now? Why didn't you stop him?"

Jason popped the last spoonful of his breakfast into his mouth and savoured the sweet taste of strawberries. He grinned. "From what I can tell, it kinda looks like he's robbing Bruce blind. You've gotta admit that's kind of hilarious."

Dick didn't look like he found it hilarious at all. His face twisted into that constipated look that Jason knew all-too-well. They would be _talking_ about the situation later.

Jason sighed and put his empty bowl down on the couch behind the painting. " _Fine_. How do you want to play this?"

Dick moved slowly closer to where Tim was sitting at Bruce's desk. "Tim? Hey, little bro, what're you doing?"

"Getting account numbers," Tim replied absently. "I need more."

Dick's eyes widened. "Account numbers? Are you hacking into B's bank records?"

Tim nodded.

"How about we don't do that?" Dick asked, clearly trying to keep his voice neutral.

A loud buzz sounded from the phone in Tim's pocket and he ignored it.

"Tim? Let's leave B's finances alone for a second, okay?"

"I need to get more," Tim replied. "It's not enough. I need the most valuable things …"

His phone fell silent and only a few seconds later, Dick's started ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced meaningfully at Jason as he answered. "Hey, B. I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume this has something to do with Tim?"

Jason circled the desk to glance at the computer screen and raised an eyebrow as Tim rapidly navigated his way through Bruce's accounts. Part of him wanted to see what the kid could do, but it really was starting to get a little concerning. He reached over and pressed the power button.

"Hey!" Tim protested, trying to bat Jason's hand away.

"Sorry, Replacement," Jason said. "I think Alfred will get annoyed if I let you clear out B's accounts."

The computer shut down and Tim tapped his fingers restlessly against the unresponsive keyboard for a moment before pushing himself away from the desk. He wove his way past Dick, who was still talking quietly on his phone, and returned to the pile in the centre of the room. He started scooping up the cash and jewellery and depositing them into the pockets of his suit jacket.

"It's not good enough," Tim muttered. "I need more; there has to be more."

Jason was getting more than a little worried now. While it had been funny at first to watch Tim in the process of bungling his first attempt at robbery, it was becoming more and more clear that whatever was happening was not the result of a sleep-deprived hallucination. Tim was awake, aware, and looking terribly worried.

He tried to leave the study, but Jason reached out and redirected him to the overstuffed chair in front of the desk. He pushed the teen gently until he was sitting down and tried to look him in the eyes. "Tim, why do you need more? Are you in trouble? Did something happen?"

Tim shook his head and tried to get up, but Jason kept a firm grip on his shoulder. "He needs more. He needs the best. He _needs_ me to get it for him."

"Who? Bruce?"

"Not Bruce. He's on his way back, though," Dick said with a shake of his head as he ended his phone call. He knelt so that he was closer to Tim's height. "Are you okay, buddy?"

"I need more," Tim said. Jason's frown deepened at the almost-desperate tone in Tim's voice. "Let me up. I need more."

"What the hell is going on?" Jason asked, ignoring his increasingly-squirmy younger brother. "What did Bruce say?"

"Just that Tim went out to get a coffee before the meeting and he never came back. B tracked his phone and was surprised to see him back here. He confirmed that he never asked Tim to get anything from the safe."

Jason tightened his grip on Tim's shoulder again as the younger boy tried once again to get up. "Sit still, Replacement."

"I need more! It's all worthless!" Tim protested.

"Worthless?" Dick asked with a look of disbelief. "Seriously?"

"He has a point," Jason reasoned. "It's not like B keeps his most valuable possessions in the study, right?"

Tim stilled under his hand and Jason had barely a moment to realize what he'd just said before the teen burst into motion.

"Crap!" Dick cursed as Tim aimed a kick at his midsection and sent him sprawling backwards.

Jason barely avoided a fist to the gut as Tim twisted on the chair. He wasn't as fortunate in avoiding the knee that followed. Jason grabbed for Tim, missing by a hair's breadth as the little brat somersaulted over the back of the chair and sprang towards the grandfather clock against the far wall.

Tim ducked and grabbed a heavy book from the floor, turning to launch it at Jason with highly-inconvenient accuracy. Jason barely managed to raise his arm in time to keep the tome from hitting him square in the face, and by that time, Tim was already slipping through the entrance to the Batcave.

Jason was barely aware of Dick racing up behind him as he darted to the clock just as Tim tried to close it behind him. Jason grabbed the door and got his fingers pinched in the opening for his trouble.

"Fuck!" Jason cried in frustration. "What the _hell_?" He pulled at the clock even as Tim tugged back from the inside. It freakin' _hurt_!

"Tim! Whatever you're doing, you need to stop!" Dick called out, finally helping Jason pry the door open enough so he could stick his foot into the opening instead of his fingers. Tim wasn't going to be able to lock them out.

Jason gritted his teeth as his fingers throbbed and anger seethed within him. Whatever was going on, it was going to stop. _Now_.

Tim abruptly let go of the clock and the sudden lack of resistance sent the door swinging forcefully open - right into Dick's face.

Dick dropped to his knees, his hand already going to his forehead as he groaned in pain.

"You okay?" Jason asked. His brother had taken a hard hit, one he hadn't expected and hadn't guarded against, but there wasn't really any time for him to administer first aid.

Dick's forehead was already an angry red when he looked up at Jason. "Go! I'll catch up!"

Jason didn't wait for another invitation. He ran down the stairs, taking two at a time until he emerged into the cave.

"Tim?"

The cave was eerily silent as Jason peered into its shadowed depths. Even the bats were quiet at the moment, whiling away the early morning in undisturbed slumber. He couldn't see any movement, but Tim was quick and could have already have moved out of sight. It was hardly surprising; it wasn't as though the kid hadn't been trained in stealth or anything.

For whatever reason, the teen was looking for valuables. He was on the hunt for something worth more than the antique jewellery in Bruce's wall safe, and unfortunately, that meant pretty much anything in the cave was up for grabs.

The cave was a veritable treasure trove of weaponry, gadgets, and vehicles. There was a stash of kryptonite as well as any number of items confiscated from villains that would have fetched a small fortune on the black market.

What would Tim view as being the most valuable, though?

As far as Jason knew, Tim had no real interest in baubles and trinkets. Of course, he knew their worth to others, but he'd never ogled something shiny or given any indication that he personally found them worth _anything_.

Tim Drake valued technology, and the most likely place to score some bat-tech was the armoury.

Jason made his way to the armoury, moving stealthily and silently as he attempted to sneak up on his brother. Everything appeared to be in its place. The tables were covered with whatever project Bruce or Tim had been working on, with circuitry and wires spread into some form of order to await their next free moment of experimentation. The display racks containing batarangs, grappling hooks, rebreathers, smoke pellets, and all the other various tools of the trade stood untouched. Tim hadn't been there.

Jason cursed under his breath.

Where would Tim go? What would he take?

The Batmobile? It was valuable, certainly, but was it worth as much as Tim seemed to require?

The Batcomputer was probably the piece of equipment that Tim valued most, but he could hardly snag it and run away with it; the thing was massive. Besides, Jason had already walked past it and Tim hadn't been in his customary place at the keyboard.

Jason made his way back to the centre of the cave. He was going to need to access the security cameras or run the risk of missing Tim entirely. The kid knew the cave and he knew how to avoid people.

It was then that Jason heard it - a tiny metallic clang, like someone had dropped a small tool.

Tim was still there, that much was certain.

Jason held still, listening carefully for anything that might give his brother's position away. He turned slowly, straining his eyes in the shadows as he sought any sign of movement.

He almost missed it.

There was the glint of light reflecting off of something metal … and then Tim was erupting from the darkness in a mad dash across the cave.

Jason gave chase immediately, not bothering to call for Tim to stop. The kid wasn't listening anyway.

Tim was fast and agile, but Jason was no slouch. He'd been chasing people down his entire life and he had the benefit of a long stride and the irritation that only an older brother with pinched fingers could have.

Tim was heading for the Batmobile, racing as though the Joker himself was on his tail. Jason grabbed the back of his suit jacket, but Tim slithered out of it before he could get a solid grip. Jason tossed the jacket aside with a growl and grabbed for his brother again. The gap had been closed. Tim wasn't going to get away this time.

He reached out and managed to snag Tim's sleeve, yanking the younger boy off-balance long enough to get a hold of his arm.

Tim whirled, bringing up the metal device in his hand as he tried to slam it against Jason's head. Jason responded by capturing that hand, too, before kicking Tim's legs out from under him to bring him to the ground.

The metal box slid from Tim's grip as he landed on the hard ground, but he wasn't done fighting. Even as Jason attempted to pin the squirming teenager, Tim managed to get his feet between them and heave Jason off of him. Jason rolled with it, not relinquishing his grip on Tim's arm. If he let go of the kid, he was never going to catch him again.

Tim was still scrabbling to reach the box, which Jason realized with shock was an external backup drive.

Tim was stealing information directly from the Batcomputer!

_What the fuck was going on?_

Jason tugged Tim closer, ignoring the increasingly-frantic kicks that were levelled at him as he tried to pin Tim down.

"No!" Tim cried. "Please! I have to get more! Please! You don't understand!"

It was the cry of someone who knew he wasn't getting away. It was the sound someone made when they had no other recourse but words.

Any other time, the despondent voice would have had Jason itching to go after whoever was hurting his kid brother.

This time, though, it wasn't some random villain or Gotham Rogue holding Tim down - it was _him_.

Tim flailed and begged for Jason to let him go. Even as Jason finally managed to use his superior weight to hold Tim in place, the teen was still reaching for the hard drive, pleading for understanding.

"Tim!" Dick's cry from the bottom of the staircase only set off another frantic bout of struggling.

Jason could feel Tim's rapid pulse under his hands. He was in full fight-or-flight mode and Jason hated himself for his part in it. He'd sworn to himself a long time ago that he would never hurt the kid again, and yet here he was - holding him down against the cold, hard ground as Tim fought to get free.

It brought back memories Jason would have preferred to remain buried.

Tim went suddenly limp in his grasp and Jason nearly panicked. " _Tim_? Shit!"

He instinctively moved a hand to Tim's face, and at that exact moment, Tim's free arm swung upwards and landed a heavy blow against Jason's face, slamming into his nose.

Jason reeled back slightly, stunned by the speed of the unexpected attack. Tim squirmed again, managing to get to his knees before Jason grabbed him in a headlock and pulled him back.

Dick was suddenly at his side, a blur of frantic energy. His lips were moving as he spoke, but Jason couldn't hear anything over the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. His injured nose pulsed and he was faintly aware of the fact that it was bleeding.

He ignored it.

He ignored the pain and the confusion and focused solely on Tim.

His brother was still thrashing, trying to break the hold Jason had on him. His blows were ineffective now as Jason gently exerted the pressure necessary to subdue the teen. If he didn't do it right, he would hurt Tim, possibly even kill him, but it was the only thing Jason could think of to stop him.

He pushed back the self-loathing that rose within him as Tim's struggles slowed and his arms fell limply to his sides.

Was he faking again? Jason had to take the chance and release him; he couldn't risk maintaining the hold too long. He carefully eased his grip, ready to grab him again if Tim should suddenly spring up to attack, but his brother simply sagged in his arms.

Jason checked his pulse, relieved to feel Tim's heart still pumping.

He looked up at Dick's bruised face to see horrified confusion.

"What the hell just happened?" Dick whispered.

Jason shook his head. "Help me get him to the medbay. This won't keep him under for long."

Together they carried Tim's unconscious body to one of the medical cots. Jason bit his lip as he looked down at the still form.

Dick cleared his throat. "I think we need to …," his voice trailed off as he looked pointedly at the restraints.

Jason sighed heavily. "Yeah. Right." Because strapping Tim down after choking him out was totally how he wanted to be spending his day. He felt utterly exhausted as he tightened the straps around Tim's wrists and Dick took care of his ankles.

Absently, Jason wondered if he should check Dick for a concussion. Judging by the size of the mark on his forehead and the fact that he was squinting at everything, it was clear that Dick was still feeling the blow. Jason was feeling the results of his own scuffle with Tim; his nose throbbed, but had already stopped bleeding.

Jason stayed silent.

When they were done tying their brother down, and Jason hated himself even more for doing that, Dick shook his head. "I guess it's pretty clear that something bad happened to Tim after he went to grab a coffee."

"He was taking a backup drive from the Batcomputer," Jason said sombrely. "He almost made it to the Batmobile."

Dick's eyes widened. "Well, that drive is certainly more valuable than jewellery. B has files on all the major players in Gotham … all his notes from every investigation - bribes, scandals, embezzlement … the works. That information in the wrong hands would be worth a _fortune_ to a blackmailer. You may as well hand over the key to the city with the number of officials he'd have control over."

"Not to mention the fact that if Tim stole it from Bruce, it's gonna raise a lot of questions about _why_ Bruce has that information in the first place," Jason pointed out. "The person responsible is probably expecting jewellery and such, not Batman-level investigation notes."

"I know who has my vote," Dick mused. "Mad Hatter was one of the escapees from last week and we haven't found him yet. He's done this sort of thing before."

"Crap, I hate that guy," Jason groaned. "Check Tim's pockets; if Hatter is involved, there might be some sort of transmitter."

Mad Hatter usually relied on hypnosis or advanced technology to control the thoughts of others. He'd hidden receivers on his victims before, disguised as harmless items. If he'd managed to slip something onto Tim, it would explain a lot.

Jason left Dick to check Tim's wallet while he retrieved the teen's suit jacket. The pockets were laden with the jewellery and cash that he'd snagged upstairs, but there was nothing else of interest.

"Nothing in his pockets," Jason announced.

"I think I have something here," Dick announced. He held up a card, clearly meant to be some sort of rewards card for a coffee shop near Wayne Enterprises. "Think there's any chance that Mad Hatter might be repeating himself?"

"One way to find out," Jason said. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the cabinet next to him and handed them over to Dick.

Dick cut through the card before holding the pieces up for Jason to see.

 _Nothing_.

No hidden circuitry or suspicious wires, just a regular plastic rewards card.

Which Tim was going to be _very_ pissed that they'd destroyed.

He glanced down at his brother and was immediately relieved to see Tim blinking up at him. "How are you feeling, Replacement?"

"Kinda crappy, to be honest," Tim responded with only a hint of wooziness, "but I'm good now. You can let me up."

Jason raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously," Tim continued, "I think I'm fine now. I'm not going to hit you again, I promise."

"Uh huh. That's just what a brainwashed person would say," Jason countered.

"Are you kidding? This isn't funny!" Tim's pissy glare was epic and if looks could kill, Jason would have been dead already. Again.

Jason chose not to comment on that. Instead, he just shrugged. "At least we agree on that."

"Do you remember what happened?" Dick interjected. "Was it Mad Hatter? Did he give you something? Did anything weird happen to you this morning?"

"Well, I'm tied to a bed," Tim answered flatly. "That's pretty weird."

Jason snorted. "That sounds like something you would say."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I told you that already! I think losing consciousness severed whatever hold he had over me; it's like I just snapped out of it."

"Was it Mad Hatter?" Dick asked again.

Tim frowned. "Maybe? I remember going for coffee and I remember seeing something flashing in an alley on my way back. After that, I just … needed to, I dunno … complete my mission? I had to get the best; he wanted the most valuable thing I could get. Nothing I found was good enough."

Jason sighed. _Hypnosis, then_. He really hated Mad Hatter.

Dick put his hand on Tim's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"I almost ruined everything," Tim said quietly. "If I'd gotten out of the cave with information from the Batcomputer, it would have blown our identities right out of the water. One little flashing light and I nearly destroyed what Bruce has spent decades building."

"Not to mention that you were trying to make your escape in the Batmobile," Jason added helpfully. " _That_ would have been hard to sweep under the rug."

Dick groaned as Tim seemed to shrink back on the cot.

Jason tried not to feel guilty. "I mean, it's all fine, right? You didn't get away, so there's no harm done."

"Thanks to you," Tim said. "If you hadn't stopped me …"

Jason sighed at the undisguised gratitude in Tim's eyes. Jason wanted to puke at the memory of Tim's fading struggles under his grip and the stupid brat was _grateful_ for it. It was going to take a _lot_ of alcohol to erase that particular sensation and Jason was already itching to get started.

"I mean it, Jay. Thank you." Tim looked up at him with his freakin' Bambi eyes and earnest features and Jason had to fight the urge to storm out of the cave. His fingers throbbed as he gripped the bedrail and tried to calm himself.

It worked for a moment.

And then stupid Tim kept talking.

"I guess you get another mark on the tally, right?"

The tone was clearly meant to be light-hearted - a peace offering to ease the tense atmosphere. It did not have the effect that Tim had so clearly intended.

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" Jason erupted. "I didn't save you; I nearly _killed_ you and you think I should get a fucking _tally_ for it?"

Tim's eyes were the size of dinner plates and he shrank back as Jason fumed, but he was still tied down and there was nowhere for him to go.

"Jason!" Dick tried to interject, but Jason was beyond listening to him.

"I choked you out, in case you didn't notice," Jason raged. "Who the fuck _thanks_ someone for that? If I'd held on too long, you would have _died_ and that would have been on me! I could have killed my own brother and for what? To protect our identities? To stop you from giving a stupid hard drive to _Mad Hatter_? You think that's an acceptable price to pay? _Fuck that_!"

His brothers didn't reply, but Jason hadn't really expected them to. He forced down his rage, struggling to regain control. He suddenly felt far too exposed. Exhaustion rushed through him, swirling in to fill the gaping holes left by his retreating anger.

Jason let out a shaky breath and looked at his younger brother.

Tim didn't move as Jason stepped forward, reaching out to take Tim's face in his hands.

"Don't be so fucking stupid, Replacement," Jason muttered.

He let himself ruffle Tim's hair before stepping away.

Dick was the first to speak. "Jay-"

"Don't even try, Dick. I'm going to go find Hatter and I'm going to punch him really, really hard multiple times. I'll probably shoot him in both kneecaps, too, just for good measure," Jason said evenly. "If Tim can remember where he was supposed to take the loot, you can pass the info along on comms. Otherwise, don't even talk to me right now."

Jason stormed out of the medical bay, barely hearing Tim's soft apologies behind him. It was just another thing to feel guilty about, but he'd deal with that later.

Right now, he had work to do.

* * *


	13. Seaworthy

I am _so_ sorry for the delay in this chapter. I knew what I wanted to write, but had such a terrible case of writer's block that it was nearly impossible to put thoughts to words. This isn't what I was trying for, but it's something …

If you're still reading, thank you!!

* * *

Tim cursed as a wave of gunfire impacted the deck in front of him. He leapt for cover, thanking his lucky stars that most of the ship was metal and provided more than adequate protection from the bullets that were being levelled at him. The hatch cover was just enough of a shield to prevent him from getting his head ventilated by some overzealous goons.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere for him to go from there. To one side was the hatch, which led to an enclosed hold where he would be cut down like a fish in a barrel; to the other side was a metal railing and a swim in the Atlantic Ocean. If he tried to move towards the bow or stern of the vessel, he would be picked off by the gun-happy lunatics currently trying to take him out.

Nope, he was a little bit stuck right now. He could only hope that either the bad guys would stop shooting long enough for him to break cover to fight back, or that one of his brothers would be able to render a little bit of assistance.

"Nightwing, I'm taking some heavy fire here," Tim reported through his comms. "Are you doing any better?"

Dick gave a short laugh. "I wish, Red. They've got enough weapons here to outfit an entire army. Still trying to make it to the bridge. Are you okay?"

"For now," Tim confirmed. He wasn't really, but what was he going to say? Dick clearly had his own problems and Tim was just going to have to improvise. He pulled out his batarangs and waited for a lull in the onslaught.

"I just want you to know that I blame you for this, Nightwing," Jason's voice cut in. He was currently below decks with Damian, and from the sounds of gunfire coming over the comms, they were not having a particularly easy time of the close-quarters fight either.

"Why would you blame me?" Even in the midst of gunfire and the shouts of angry drug runners, Dick managed to sound affronted. "How is _any_ of this my fault?"

"We're on a _boat_ on the _water_. You and water are a terrible mix. I told you before we even got on this stupid ship that it was going to end badly, but you wouldn't listen."

Tim snorted and took advantage of a pause in the gunfire to launch some batarangs in the direction of the gunmen. There were two men shooting at him, but he only heard one yelp of pain. It was better than nothing, though.

Tim bolted from his cover, racing towards the men before they could react. He already had another batarang in the air, successfully knocking the gun from one man's hand even as he followed up by kicking the second man into submission.

"It was _one time_!" Dick protested.

"I've personally saved you at least twice!" Jason retorted.

"That doesn't mean I have a problem!"

"Didn't you tell me that you once got handcuffed to a fridge and thrown off a dock?" Tim interjected. He grinned as he zip-tied the gun-runners.

"Shit, we're all gonna die," Jason groaned. "We're on the water with a literal jinx."

There was another spray of gunfire, this time coming from somewhere in Dick's vicinity.

"Nightwing? Need an assist?" Tim asked in mild concern.

Dick gave a small grunt. "If you're free, it wouldn't hurt. I finally made it to the bridge, but it's getting crowded in here."

"There are more miscreants down here than we had anticipated as well." Damian sounded annoyed as he chimed in to the conversation, but he was right. The ship was supposed to be little more than a floating drug lab where an experimental new concoction was being formulated - a concoction that had already killed over a dozen people and was poised to take out even more if the people creating it weren't stopped.

With Bruce out of the country on a mission with the Justice League, it had been left to the four of them to bring down the operation. They had descended on the boat in stealth with the intention of a quick takedown, but it was proving to be a more difficult task than expected. For one thing, the drug runners had apparently joined forces with arms smugglers at some point without anyone knowing. For another, there was clearly some sort of convention going on, judging from the number of people on the boat. It was getting ridiculous.

And the cherry on top of the crappy pile of bad luck was that the ship had left Gotham Harbour right after the vigilantes started their stealth assault, which meant that every minute the fight dragged on, they were getting farther and farther from shore.

"I have some serious health and safety questions for whoever is running this operation, too," Jason said. "Not only are there chemicals stored haphazardly all over the place, these yahoos are shooting like it's the wild west."

"And said chemicals are stored directly next to explosive materials," Damian added. "Perhaps Red Hood is correct - if this fight continues for much longer, it will most assuredly end with an explosion and our untimely deaths."

That was definitely less than encouraging; they needed to take control of the situation quickly. Tim made his way to the stairs leading to the upper level near the bridge. Judging from the sounds reaching him through his comms, he needed to help Dick before the older man got himself shot.

Of course, nothing was ever that easy.

"Shit!" Tim swore as his foot was grabbed through the slats on the steep staircase. The thug gave a sharp tug and only Tim's quick reflexes saved him from a fall. He clutched the railing and tried to twist free, but the man's grip was like iron. From his current position, Tim couldn't even see his opponent.

It was time for some tricky manoeuvres.

Tim dropped backwards, letting himself down in a controlled fall until he was lying on the staircase with his foot still in the gun-runner's hold. From his new upside-down perspective, Tim could make out the man's torso through the stair slats.

Tim couldn't help the smile that broke across his face as he extended his bo staff through the space to slam into the man's stomach. His foot was immediately released as the goon let out a cry of pain and Tim flipped himself back down to the deck and quickly circled the staircase to finish the fight with a punch to the man's face.

All in all, the delay had taken only seconds, but it was more than enough time for everything to go sideways.

A loud grunt drew Tim's attention to the grated catwalk above him.

Dick erupted into view directly overhead, exchanging vicious blows with a man nearly twice his size.

Tim cursed and swung himself back onto the stairs to help his brother.

Nightwing was already bleeding from several cuts on his face and there were noticeable tears in his suit. From the brutality of the fight, it was more than clear that the huge thug knew what he was doing.

" _Fire in the hole_!"

The shouted warning brought Tim to a stop and his eyes widened in horror as he caught sight of what was happening.

One of the gun-runners had procured a rocket-launcher … and was aiming it directly at the duelling combatants!

Tim felt the world slow down. Surely there was no fucking way that anyone would shoot at their own colleague right next to the bridge of the vessel on which they were currently standing - a vessel that housed enough chemicals and weaponry to make for a very bad night for anyone involved if someone started making things explode.

Except someone was doing exactly that.

The man steadied his aim as Tim was drawing out his last batarang; even as he moved, he knew he wasn't going to be quick enough to stop what was about to happen.

"Nightwing!" Tim screamed a warning to his brother as he let the batarang fly. The projectile hit the thug just as he pulled the trigger, sending his aim up and to the right as it fired.

Dick had just enough time to spin away, but not enough to get out of the blast range as the bridge suddenly erupted in a mess of flame and twisted metal.

The catwalk rocked with the explosion and Tim was flung backwards down the stairs, his horrified gaze locked on Dick even as he fell. Everything still felt impossibly slow, as though it were happening in a nightmare to ensure that every detail would be forever embedded in Tim's memory.

He watched as Dick went flying, propelled by the force of the blast. Dick's arms flailed wildly as he careened towards the railing of the walkway. Tim caught the barest glimpse of his brother's head impacting the metal barrier before he had fallen too far to see him anymore.

Tim hit the ship's deck hard and the breath was knocked from his body. His ears rang and he blinked up in confusion through the metal grating at Nightwing, who was clearly unconscious and slumped awkwardly onto the catwalk.

Tim was scarcely aware of climbing unsteadily to his feet. The staircase brackets were twisted and barely attached to the metal bulkhead, making it wobble ominously as Tim made his way to Dick's aid.

The bridge was a mess. Bodies were slumped on the floor, mangled and bloody as fire licked at their clothing. Whatever electronics had been set up in the ship's control centre were destroyed beyond all hope for repair.

Tim couldn't hear the fire as it raged. It should have been loud - crackling and angry as it destroyed everything it could touch in the devastated bridge - but it was utterly silent behind the ringing in Tim's ears. Part of him worried at that, but he pushed his unease aside as he made his way to his brother.

The man Dick had been fighting had also been knocked aside like little more than a child's discarded plaything. He had been closer to the bridge than Dick had, and the damage was evident. His body was smoking slightly and there were pieces of metal sticking out of his back. He looked dead.

Tim looked past the body and tried to focus on his brother. The entire catwalk was hanging at an alarming angle and Dick was far too close to the edge for Tim's liking.

"Red Hood, Robin, there's been an explosion and the bridge has been destroyed." Tim's ears were still ringing from the sound of the blast. He couldn't hear his own voice and any reply his brothers may have made was lost to him. "Nightwing is injured; I need backup."

He could only hope that they could hear him as he carefully stepped over the definitely-dead form of Nightwing's massive opponent and made his way slowly to his brother. The catwalk shifted slightly and Tim let out a very tense breath as it fell still once more.

He had to be careful.

Tim tried to spread his weight out, for once thankful for his slight frame. When he reached Dick, he cautiously lowered himself to his knees so he could assess the older man's condition.

It didn't look good.

Blood was streaming from Dick's forehead and the gory mess covered half his face. He was breathing, which was encouraging, but Tim had no idea what kind of injuries lurked under the surface. He could only hope that Dick didn't have a skull fracture, but there was no way of telling until they got him back to the cave.

Tim cursed and pulled out a bandage, pressing the material against the wound. "Hood, I need help here," Tim implored. He still couldn't hear himself and the fact that he wasn't getting an audible reply made him uneasy. He hated not knowing what was going on with the others.

He risked a peek over to where the man with the rocket-launcher had been standing, but the space was empty. The weapon was discarded on the deck as though the man had simply ditched it before running away. It was unsurprising - the man had just blown up his own ship and killed several of his own men. There was absolutely no way he wasn't going to get in shit for that.

Tim was sorely tempted to hunt him down himself after he helped Dick. He mentally added it to his to-do list.

"Nightwing? Can you hear me?" Tim tried to wake Dick up without injuring him further, but the older man didn't respond.

The catwalk lurched suddenly, sending a jolt of alarm running through Tim's body. The metal frame lowered ominously, swinging away from the bridge with a sickening motion. Tim gripped the railing with one hand, and Dick's unconscious form with the other, gritting his teeth as he fully expected the walkway to fall.

It swayed gently for a moment, but stayed attached to the ship and Tim finally let out a relieved breath.

There was movement at the opposite end of the catwalk and Tim's hopes sank as a man made his way up the compromised staircase. Everything was hanging on by a thread - the only thing keeping Dick and Tim from crashing from their precarious perch was a few twisted metal brackets that were still holding on after the blast. More weight on those brackets meant they were forced to endure more stress, which meant greater chances were that things were going to go horribly and completely wrong.

Every step the man took sent ripples down the twisted catwalk and Tim found himself holding out his hands to urge the thug back.

"If you come out here, this entire walkway is going to collapse!" he said urgently.

The man was heavily armed and Tim positioned himself carefully so Dick was protected behind him. The man paused and Tim could see he was speaking, but he still couldn't make out the words.

He gestured with his weapon for Tim to come to him, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Tim shook his head.

The man stepped forward, sending another jolt through the compromised walkway. Both he and Tim stilled as the metal swayed ominously and started to sag even lower. Tim glanced down, cursing as he noted the dark, cold waters of the Atlantic ocean beneath him.

"Hood, I could really use that help now," Tim muttered.

The gunman took another step and Tim could feel the surface beneath him groaning under the added weight. The dead body of Dick's unfortunate opponent slid slowly down the incline towards the vigilantes. The walkway shuddered again and Tim held his breath.

He was out of batarangs and any kind of fight would rip the unstable grating from its anchors and likely spill both Tim and his badly-wounded brother into the water.

He wasn't going to be able to take down the man while protecting Nightwing. Why the thug hadn't just shot them yet was anyone's guess - the man with the rocket-launcher hadn't been hesitating, so the fact that this one apparently didn't want to fill the vigilantes with bullets was a bit of a mystery. Tim wasn't inclined to ask him, though. Not only would he be unable to hear the answer, he didn't want to remind the goon if he had simply forgotten that murder was an option.

There was another shudder on the catwalk and the gunman finally seemed to recognize that their situation was not a safe one. The man moved backwards until he was as close to the wall as he could manage without stepping into the burning bridge. He raised his weapon and once again gestured for Tim to come to him.

Apparently, the gunman was on a time frame, or maybe he was just tired of Tim's obstinate refusal to cooperate, because he suddenly let loose a volley of bullets into the grating in front of the teen. Tim cursed and tried to cover Dick as much as he could as bullets ricocheted off the uneven metal surface. He felt one crease his arm, sending a trail of fire in its wake.

And then he was falling.

The metal support pulled free from the damaged ship and Tim caught only a split-second look at the gunman's shocked expression as the entire catwalk plummeted into the water below.

Hitting the water was a shock and Tim fought the urge to gasp as the cold water closed over his head. It was unbelievably dark and the metal walkway sank like a rock beneath him. Tim's heart was racing as he tried to find his brother. Dick had been _right beside him_! The thought that Dick might be getting dragged to the ocean floor was nearly enough to make Tim panic.

He flailed in the darkness in a desperate attempt to find any sign of Dick. His hand finally hit something solid and Tim grabbed it instinctively. He was holding onto what felt like a boot and he could only hope that it was his brother and not the dead thug.

He pushed to the surface, nearly desperate for air and almost beside himself with the need to save Dick. He didn't know if the gunmen would be waiting to shoot them when he surfaced, but he couldn't hold his breath anymore. He had to take the risk.

Tim gasped as he broke free of the water and he tugged the limp form up with him. It took some manoeuvring to pull the man's face from the water, but Tim nearly cried with relief as Nightwing's dark mask broke the surface.

Dick was still breathing, which was a miracle in and of itself, but blood was already soaking the wet bandage on his forehead. There wasn't time to worry about that, though. Tim held his brother close as he looked up at the burning ship. It was the only light around for miles and it was leaving them behind. Even damaged as it was, the vessel was still moving slowly forward in the darkness, utterly silent to Tim's ringing ears despite all the chaos he knew to happening aboard.

With no other plan, Tim adjusted his grip on Dick and started to swim after the departing boat. A burning on his arm reminded him starkly of the bullet that had creased him. There was no time to check the wound and no way to patch himself up. He could only hope that it wouldn't slow him down too much.

Tim tried to keep his breathing regular and steady as he struggled through the cold water. Things were very, very bad.

Dick hadn't so much as twitched and if it weren't for the fact that Tim kept checking to make sure he was still breathing, he could have easily been mistaken for dead. Tim's arm throbbed mercilessly as he forced it to work. If he lost too much blood, he would pass out and both he and Dick would drown. And that was just their physical states; if the boat got too far away, Tim and Dick would be alone in the ocean, miles from shore and any hope of rescue.

Tim could keep them afloat for a long time if he didn't lose too much blood, but the water was cold and exhaustion would eventually be a factor. Finding two dark-clad vigilantes in the ocean at night would not make for an easy rescue for Jason and Damian, either.

All he could do was swim to the only source of help he could see and hope that their insulated suits would keep them alive long enough for rescue.

It was slow going and he knew it was probably hopeless, but Tim kept going.

"Red Hood?" Tim called into his comms. "Robin? Can anyone hear me? Nightwing and I are in the water and we could use some help."

He couldn't hear a reply. Tim was fairly certain his hearing was only temporarily impaired, but he hated not knowing what was happening. Were his brothers replying? Were they in trouble? Were they injured?

Tim tightened his grip around Dick and fought to make progress as they bobbed in the ocean. The water was thankfully fairly calm so he didn't have to struggle against massive waves, but the odds were still against them and Tim knew it.

His cape swirled around his legs, impeding him as he tried to swim and Tim finally had to reach up and unlatch it. He breathed a sigh of relief as the weight fell away and the heavy material disappeared into the depths.

He kept his eye on the ship as he struggled to catch up. It could have been his imagination, but it appeared that the ship was slowing. Tim pushed himself to swim faster, watching with growing dread as the conditions on board the vessel deteriorated before his eyes.

The fire was spreading; Tim could see smoke starting to rise from an area closer to the bow. There was no way the flames should have travelled that way and Tim felt a sickening fear as he remembered Jason's warning about flammable chemicals belowdecks. Something had clearly happened on board and his brothers were in the thick of it without backup.

That realization scared him even more than the reality that the ship would no longer provide any safety. It was only a matter of time before the vessel foundered - every single person aboard was in very real danger of dying horribly either by fire or drowning in the cold Atlantic Ocean.

Were Jason and Damian still trapped below decks in a floating death trap? Even if they made it to a lifeboat, would they be able to find safety or would the gun-runners and drug-dealers simply kill them before they had a chance to climb into one?

"Red Hood? Robin? Someone, please answer!" Tim gasped, fighting past the pain in his arm and the fear for his siblings as he made his way far too slowly to the burning ship. He was still too far away to tell who was who, but he could make out the dark outlines of men against the fiery backdrop as they hurried to launch the lifeboats. He could only hope that Jason and Damian had a similar idea.

Tim's heart pounded in his chest as tugged Dick along through the chilly water. He swam forward, carefully keeping Dick's head out of the water as he tried not to worry at his brother's continued unconsciousness and the fact that Jason and Damian were quite possibly facing a horrible end right before his eyes.

It was almost surreal to witness the spectacle in front of him. The ship was now a hellish inferno and Tim tried not to think about how hot the metal deck was undoubtedly becoming. The figures of the men were clearly shouting to one another, flinching from the heat as they worked to free a lifeboat, though Tim still couldn't hear them, nor could he hear the roar of the flames. It was a silent drama of life-or-death and a race against the inevitable death of the ship that was supposed to protect the passengers from the unforgiving ocean.

The lifeboat finally pulled free of the ship and lowered into the water. There were still men milling on the deck and Tim could only hope that the other lifeboats on board were still untouched by the fire. He couldn't spot Jason or Damian and the situation was going downhill quickly.

"Guys, please tell me that you're getting off that ship!" Tim begged as he kept struggling forward. He hated how helpless he was. There was nothing at all he could do to except keep Dick's head above water and hope for the best.

The lifeboat moved slowly from the burning ship and Tim tensed as he realized it was heading roughly in his direction.

He shifted his grip on Dick and contemplated his options. That lifeboat was likely his only chance at getting Dick out of the water, but it was full of hostile men who had already tried to kill them. It was anyone's guess if the men would shoot them in the water or simply leave them to drown. Then again, if he did _nothing,_ they would face the same slow death. Without knowing what was happening to Jason and Damian, Tim's choices were severely limited.

The boat bobbed closer in the water and Tim's heart sank. There was nothing else he could do.

Tim called out and the reaction on the small boat was instantaneous. The beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness, scanning the surface of the water until it finally found the vigilantes. The lifeboat erupted into chaos as the men shouted and Tim was surprised to find he could make out the indistinct sounds of their voices. It wasn't enough for him to understand what they were saying, but the weapons levelled at him with alarming precision did a lot to telegraph their sentiments.

"I can't hear you," Tim admitted, hoping that it would at least buy him a little time. The men seemed to confer amongst themselves and one of them finally gestured for Tim to swim closer. It wasn't as though Tim had any alternative, so he tugged Dick over to the side of the boat and bit back any protest as the men leaned over and hauled the unconscious man in with them.

Dick fell out of sight into the bottom of the boat and Tim fought down his concern. He couldn't let himself get distracted. He needed to keep Dick safe and right now that meant not causing problems.

The men were shouting at him and Tim shook his head in confusion; it was too dark to read their lips. One of them made a deliberate show of handing his gun to his colleague and Tim nodded slowly in understanding. They wanted his weapons before they would let him onto the lifeboat. He pulled out his bo, handing it over with a deep reluctance. His belt and bandoliers followed and then he held out his hands to show he was no longer a threat.

Only then did arms reach for him to drag him into the lifeboat. He bit back a cry of pain as someone squeezed his bullet wound and he found himself pushed down next to Dick. He took the opportunity to study his brother's slack features and the sight was not encouraging. Dick was alarmingly pale and the bandage had slipped from his forehead at some point. His wound was no longer bleeding, but it still looked serious.

Someone nudged Tim with his boot, pulling his attention from his brother. Three men stood over him, weapons drawn and serious expressions on their faces.

Tim quickly assessed his opponents. There were six of them in total - three armed and completely focused on the vigilantes, two working at the lifeboat's small motor, and one who was going through Tim's utility belt.

The man rooted through Tim's supplies and dumped anything potentially dangerous over the side. Tim sighed as his grapple disappeared into the ocean. It was replaceable, but losing his tools still sucked.

The man handed some zip-ties forward to one of the gunmen and Tim sighed again. He knew where this was going and there was nothing he could do about it.

He found himself getting tugged over to a metal support strut on the side of the boat and his hands were quickly secured using his own ties. It would have been embarrassing, but Tim kept his gaze on Dick and reminded himself that at least they were out of the water.

The men left Dick slumped on the floor of the boat for the moment as they suddenly looked towards the burning vessel.

Tim shifted to see what had caught their attention and he cursed under his breath.

The ship was entirely engulfed in flames. Absolutely no part of it was untouched and even he could make out the low rumble of explosions from within the fiery hulk.

Tim tugged at his bindings and tried to twist so he could see better. His breath caught in his throat as the ship burned. Fire erupted from the hatchways on deck, the violence of the display clearly showing the detonation of whatever explosives had been stored below deck with the chemicals.

Jason and Damian had been down there.

The ship started to list to one side as it slowly succumbed to the damage being inflicted upon it. The explosions were powerful and there was no chance that the ship was intact beneath the surface. It was taking on water quickly and it would only be a matter of time before it sank.

Tim wanted to throw up.

Had his brothers gotten out? Had they made it to a lifeboat?

He could see people in the water, flailing as they struggled to put distance between themselves and the deadly display behind them.

"We have to go back!" Tim cried. "We can save them! There's still room on -"

The backhanded blow caught him by surprise and he nearly bit his tongue.

The man who had hit him wagged his finger at Tim in warning before turning back to the spectacle.

Tim flexed his jaw and stared at the man in shock. The lifeboat only held six thugs and two vigilantes. They would be able to fit twice that number safely, and even more if they took a bit of a risk.

His brothers were out there and Tim might be watching them die.

The ship's bow lowered in the waves even as the list grew more severe. Tim couldn't pull his horrified gaze from it as the behemoth finally started a slow slide to the ocean floor. He couldn't even breathe as vessel sank from view, the fiery glow disappearing into the darkness as the Atlantic claimed her prize.

All that was left was horrible silence and the barely-visible heads of dozens of men as they were left stranded in the water.

* * *

To be continued …


	14. Sinking Feeling

Let me begin by apologizing profusely for the truly ridiculous amount of time it took for me to churn this out. I am so, so sorry.

There is some good news, though. This chapter got away from me - instead of the usual 9 pages or so I usually write, this one was pushing 25. I broke it up so I could post something a little sooner, but that means that this particular scenario is probably going to last another chapter or two. Since I'm already well into writing it, hopefully that means no more huge and horrible delays! So … that's good?

Finally, I would really like to thank everyone for the response to the last chapter. You honestly blew me away and I can't thank you enough.

I hope you're all well and thank you for reading!

(And sorry again!!)

* * *

"Run, run, run!" Jason yelled, shoving Damian in front of him.

The smaller boy didn't stop to protest the manhandling as he raced his way through the narrow corridor. Damian managed to stow the vial containing the drug sample in his belt without dropping it in the chaos, but Jason was far beyond caring at this point. The drug was the absolute _least_ of his problems now.

They needed to get back up on deck.

They needed to help Dick and Tim.

They needed to get out of the kill box before the explosives in the ship's hold did exactly what they were intended to do and, well, _explode_.

The goons were fleeing as well, rushing to the hatchway leading to the deck with a desperation that illustrated that they knew exactly how fucked they would be if they didn't get off the burning ship immediately. The fire raging in the armoury behind him was more than enough inspiration for Jason to join them in making a hasty exit.

Who the fuck stored hazardous chemicals right next to explosives and then proceeded to _shoot at them_? The men were clearly all fools of the highest order and that made them unpredictable and dangerous … just like their aim, which was responsible for the entire mess in the first place.

There just weren't curse words creative enough for Jason's needs.

Damian coughed as the chemical-laden smoke started filling the corridor. Jason's helmet filtered most of it out, but Robin had no such protection. All the kid had was his woefully inadequate rebreather, which he pulled out of his belt as he raced towards freedom. The tiny device did nothing to ward off the searing heat, so it wasn't exactly an ideal solution by any stretch of the imagination. It was better than nothing, though, and Jason could only hope that they would make it out into the night air quickly and get everything back under control.

That was probably going to be easier said than done.

Ahead of them, nearly a dozen hired guns charged their way up the steep staircase, chasing the promise of salvation from the horrific death awaiting them below. Thick, pulsing plumes of acrid smoke billowed out of the hatchway and roiled madly in the cool night air. The possibility that escape was close at hand turned the men frantic with desperation. They were beyond panicked - each man was recklessly seeking his own survival, no longer caring about either their cohorts or their pursuers.

That suited Jason just fine. He had bigger things to worry about, after all. Tim's halting reports of the situation on deck had been chilling in both their message and their brevity before they had stopped completely. All Jason knew was that there had been an explosion and his brothers were in the water. Tim wasn't answering any of his questions, and whether that was due to injury or technical difficulties was still impossible to determine. Either way, the others were in trouble and Jason would be damned if he was going to leave them to drown in the dark Atlantic.

But in order to save their brothers, he and Damian first had to save themselves.

"Go, Robin! Move!" Jason ordered. He grabbed Damian's arms and heaved him up the stairs, just that much closer to questionable safety, not even caring as the kid squawked angrily. There wasn't time to apologize, not that he would have anyway. Jason would take an angry Damian over a dead one any day of the week.

Jason was only a step behind his brother as they fought their way out of the scorching hellhole and emerged onto the only-slightly-less-hellish open deck.

It was like something out of a disaster movie. The ship was already obscured by thick smoke that was rising from the open hatchways, and the cries of panicked men could scarcely be heard over the sounds of explosions detonating in the hold. Metal creaked and the ship shuddered ominously from the force of the blasts.

Jason cursed as he realized just how narrowly they had avoided being below when the chain reaction started. If they had been only seconds later in escaping, they would likely be dead right now.

 _Again_.

The explosions only added to the chaos. The fleeing men were already racing for the stern, heading to the pair of lifeboats that were mounted on both the starboard and port sides. Even through the smoke, it was obvious that abandoning ship was turning into a free-for-all. Dozens of heavily-armed men were struggling to get into the boats and not one of them seemed to give a moment of thought to their companions. There was no cooperation - only a fight for survival by frantic men already prone to fits of violence.

"We won't get off the ship that way," Damian rasped. "There's no way we can take them all and secure a boat."

He wasn't wrong. Jason's guns and Damian's ruthlessness would only get them so far against a crowd of panicked criminals out to save themselves. If they were turning against each other and they were on the same side, Jason held no illusions about how they would react to the vigilantes trying to shoehorn their way onto a lifeboat. He definitely didn't have enough ammo left to attempt that kind of assault.

Even as he watched in growing alarm, gunshots rang out and a new chorus of terrified cries filled the night. Two men were suddenly down, falling gracelessly to the deck as they bled heavily from unexpected bullet wounds. No one paused in their mad rush for the boats; they simply trampled the fallen men and shoved one another for position, uncaring of the blood that now stained their boots.

Another cry rang out and one of the lifeboats plummeted down to the water as a handful of men managed to launch it, leaving the rest of the stranded people behind on the fiery ship.

"That's going to make this harder," Jason muttered.

"It wasn't even half-full!" Damian exclaimed in barely-concealed disgust. "They just abandoned everyone!"

"No honour amongst thieves, kid," Jason reminded him. "We need to find another way off. I think there were lifeboats in front of the bridge."

Damian stared pointedly at the hulk of metal that had once been the bridge. In front of the destruction was a thick cloud of smoke and the ominous red glow of fire licking at the open hatches. There was a reason nobody had gone for the forward lifeboats, and that was likely because it was probably suicidal to even try.

"No time like the present, right?" Jason asked with forced light-heartedness. Odds were good that they were going to die, but that was no reason to be gloomy.

"Let's get it over with," Damian muttered. "You get to be the one to tell Batman about this, though."

Jason shrugged as Damian got his rebreather situated and nodded that he was ready.

Then they raced into hell.

The heat was already intense and they hadn't even cleared the remains of the metal scaffolds that hung brokenly from the bridge. In front of them, the waves of rising heat warped the air and the fire made it difficult to navigate the treacherous deck. The longer it took, the worse their chances were of making it out alive and despite his attempts at levity, Jason was not in any way prepared to die on a burning ship. He knew he'd seen lifeboats midway up the ship - he was certain of it. He couldn't afford to be wrong - he was staking his life as well as Damian's on it … not to mention the lives of Dick and Tim, who were out there in the Atlantic right now, probably watching in horror as the ship burned.

A sharp tug on his arm drew Jason's attention back to Damian, who directed him to the other side of the ship. There, barely visible beyond a plume of deadly smoke, was a lifeboat davit. Jason let Damian lead the way, content to feel his brother's grip on his arm; the visibility was so poor he ran the risk of losing him otherwise.

They were running out of time. It was far too hot and Jason was pretty sure the soles of his boots were already melting against the overheated deck plates. They were cutting their escape way too close for comfort and it was making Jason antsy. Damian reached the lifeboat a step before Jason did, but that wasn't quickly enough for older man's tastes. He once again plucked the boy off the ground, tossing him unceremoniously into the boat before starting the process of freeing it from the ship.

He tried not to focus on his pounding heartbeat and the fact that his helmet was starting to fail him. His filters were overwhelmed and the metal was getting so hot, it felt like he was being cooked within its shell. Damian would be even worse off with just the rebreather. He had no real protection from the intense heat, and Jason just wasn't _fucking_ fast enough -

The latches clicked free and Jason threw himself onto the lifeboat, where Damian was already working to lower it. His brother screamed something to him, but was drowned out as another series of explosions rumbled deep within the ship's hold. Another cache of weapons had just exploded and somehow Jason just knew that the shuddering groan that followed finally constituted the death cry of the vessel.

There was no time to lower the boat safely; it was time to get a little reckless.

"Hold on!" Jason screamed. He grabbed Damian and slammed the lever that released the lifeboat, bracing himself for the drop.

If Damian let out a cry of alarm, Jason didn't hear it.

They hit the water hard and Jason hoped the lifeboat was superbly well-made; if it wasn't, they had probably just broken it in the uncontrolled fall. Still, better a slowly sinking lifeboat than a quickly burning ship. They'd find out one way or the other soon enough, anyway.

Jason managed to push himself upright and barely spared a glance to make sure Damian was still alive before hurrying back to the motor. They needed space between them and the dying ship and they needed it _now_. It would be just his luck to breathe a sigh of relief only to be cut down by chunks of metal if there was another explosion, or crushed if the stupid boat capsized on them.

Damian joined him just as Jason got the boat running and started steering it away from the sinking death trap. Despite his intentions, he didn't get far, instead slowing in spite of himself as he took in the horror of the sight before him.

In the eerie glow of the flames, they could see the flailing figures of several men who had chosen to jump into the cold ocean rather than burn on the ship. Their terrified cries were chilling as the dying men realized just how hopeless their situation had become.

They hadn't made it onto a lifeboat.

As Jason cleared the stern of the rapidly-sinking ship, he realized just how terrible the situation was - there were dozens of heads bobbing in the water. The rest of the crew - _every last person_ \- was in the ocean.

On a hunch, Jason looked up and saw the second lifeboat still firmly attached to the back of the sinking ship and he wanted to shoot something in frustration. The fucking assholes had panicked and instead of launching the boat successfully, the fuckers had somehow fucking fucked it up and now they were making Jason's night that much harder.

_Fuck._

To make matters worse, the lights of the half-full lifeboat bobbed a short distance away, just far enough that nobody would be able to swim to them easily. The boat seemed to be holding position as though simply watching the men struggle for their lives in the frigid waters of the Atlantic.

It was a cold display of callousness in the face of human suffering.

Damian went completely still beside him and Jason wished he could shield him from the terrible sight. Arguably, the men had brought it on themselves, but nobody deserved to go out like that.

"We have to help them," Damian rasped. "We can't just let them drown." His voice sounded absolutely wrecked and Jason frowned as he noted the boy's heat-reddened cheeks and smoke-streaked features. The kid had been slow-roasted because of the incompetence of the goons and he was still advocating rescuing them instead of leaving them to their fates. Apparently, he had been listening to all of Bruce's lectures on the sanctity of life and Jason frowned at the quandary it put him in.

It wasn't that Jason gave a flying fuck about the criminals who were flooding Gotham with drugs and guns, because he didn't. It wasn't that he valued their lives over Tim's or Dick's, because he _definitely_ didn't. Worry for his missing brothers weighed heavily on him and he wanted nothing more than to search for them. Jason had been more than prepared to beat a hasty retreat, leaving the men behind in favour of finding Tim and Dick, but Damian had unknowingly complicated things by pointing out just how fucked up that course of action was.

Jason could kill people without losing sleep over it, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it or that he drew those deaths out. He killed people who were an immediate threat and he did it to save innocent lives, but if he could incapacitate someone instead of blowing them away, he generally did so.

These men were no longer a threat. They were drowning only metres away from the lifeboat, and the vigilantes had the means to help them. As much as Jason hated to admit it, Damian was probably right. They couldn't stand by and let people die horribly or they would be no different from the assholes in the first lifeboat.

_Fuck._

"We'll grab as many as we can, but we're not wasting time, okay?" Jason said finally.

Damian nodded wordlessly and moved to the front of the lifeboat.

Jason glanced at the small vessel and sighed. It would hold fewer than twenty in total and there were at least that many men in the water - probably more. Dick and Tim were going to need space and with two vigilantes already on board, that space was at a premium. They could probably grab about a dozen people in all, maybe a couple more if they squeezed them in.

By now, some of the men had spotted the vigilantes' lifeboat and were swimming towards it with all the grace of panic-stricken wildebeest.

Jason sighed. "This is going to end badly."

"Are you armed?" Damian demanded as the first man reached the side of the boat.

The man nodded shakily, gasping for breath as he clutched the side of the boat as if his life depended on it. Which, incidentally, it did.

"Drop your weapons and I'll let you aboard," Damian said firmly. "If you prefer to keep your gun, you can swim back to Gotham on your own. Just know this - if you try to conceal a weapon, I will throw you back overboard myself. Do you agree to my terms?"

The man nodded frantically and fumbled for a moment, clearly relieving himself of anything resembling a weapon, and Jason watched as Damian extended a hand to help the shivering man onto the boat.

As Damian got the man seated and secured using zip-ties, Jason had a variation of that same conversation with the next men seeking rescue.

His version was a little less polite and a little more graphic in the threats, but Red Hood had a reputation to maintain. Nobody seemed to object in any case - after all, it was either let themselves be rescued by their enemies or die alone in the ocean. As the ship finally sank beneath the waves entirely and the reality of the situation made itself readily apparent, it wasn't a hard choice to make.

What was a hard choice was the problem rapidly presenting itself - they were running out of room.

In a matter of minutes, fifteen half-frozen men were already zip-tied on the lifeboat, but there were nearly a dozen more clambering for their chance to be saved. The boat couldn't handle many more and Jason was not prepared to risk Dick and Tim any more than he already had. Their brothers could already be dead, lost beneath the waves while Jason and Damian rescued their killers from that same fate.

They were taking too long and he wasn't the only one who knew that.

With every moment that passed, Damian's features grew tighter. His haunted expression displayed his fear far more openly than Jason was used to seeing, breaking through the façade of grave maturity he usually wore.

Jason knew how desperately the kid wanted to save his brothers; it was evident in every brusque movement and hastily-tightened restraint. As he fished person after person out of the water, Damian's expression had grown more anxious and Jason was starting to see minute trembling in his limbs.

It was obvious that Damian didn't want to be here. Though he hid it supremely well, the kid was terrified. Jason could guess what was running through his mind - Damian was doing his duty, but he knew full-well what the cost might end up being and that knowledge was nearly impossible for the twelve-year-old to bear. He wanted to save his brothers, but now that he'd started a rescue, he clearly didn't know how to stop. How could he leave and abandon the stranded men to die? How could he stay and condemn his own brothers to that same fate?

How long could they linger?

Jason was wholly familiar with Bruce's code and the notion of the sanctity of life, but there was no way everyone was getting in the boat. Even if they abandoned their brothers, a notion Jason would _never_ entertain, they still wouldn't have space for all the men.

People were going to die no matter what they did, and a decision had to be made. One thing was certain - Jason wasn't about to let Damian be the one to make that choice. There was no way in hell that he would allow his brother to carry that kind of guilt.

It was up to him.

Jason started the motor again.

The outcry was instantaneous, both from the men still in the water and from their fellows on the lifeboat.

"What are you doing? You can't leave them!" one man cried.

"What? Like your buddies did?" Jason retorted sharply. "The ones who shot at you and took off in the other lifeboat without you? Shut up or you can go join your buddies in the water again."

The threat worked and the rescued criminals fell silent. Jason let out a shaky breath, grateful that his helmet hid his expression. He was going to need all the booze to quiet his turbulent mind after this fucked-up mission.

"There are still people in the water …" Damian pointed out, his voice cracking slightly as he turned to Jason. "If we leave them, they'll drown."

"Yeah, and two of those people are Nightwing and Red," Jason replied. He was relieved that his voice sounded relatively calm. "Sorry, Robin. We'll send a rescue boat as soon as we can, but we can't wait any longer. It's my call."

Damian's mouth tightened into a straight line, but all he did was nod once. Jason was certain there was a hint of relief in the boy's stoic features, but he didn't comment on it.

There would be hell to pay no matter how the night panned out, of that Jason was certain. Bruce wasn't going to be happy about a dozen drug chemists and gun runners bobbing around in the ocean, but Jason was willing to bet that he would be even less happy about two of his sons doing the same.

He steered along the path that the ship had taken, to the best of his reckoning. Dick and Tim had to be somewhere nearby. His repeated attempts to raise either of them on comms were met with silence, and Jason felt the icy tendrils of fear crawling their way up his back. Silence wasn't good. His brothers would answer him if they could.

They weren't dead.

They _couldn't_ be.

Jason gritted his teeth. They would _not_ be too late. He didn't care if he had to run search grids all night - he was not giving up on his brothers.

Damian was leaning over the front of the boat, peering intently into the darkness for any sign of life. He straightened suddenly, turning slightly to call back to Jason.

"The other boat is coming this way."

"Fantastic," Jason muttered as he noted the bobbing lights heading in their direction. That was all they needed. While everyone on their boat was secured, that wouldn't be the case on the other one. Things were probably going to get pretty hairy in a moment. "Everyone keep quiet -"

"You fuckers left us to die!" one of the rescued men screamed towards the approaching boat. "I'm going to fucking kill you all!"

"Shut up!" Jason warned him, cuffing him across the back of the head. The man glared at him, but didn't press his luck.

"You're alive. What the fuck are you complaining about?" came the shouted reply from the other boat. "Besides, the night wasn't a total loss. Take a look at the fish we caught!"

The lifeboat pulled up closer to them and Jason didn't bother to muffle his curse.

Tim was in that boat.

The teen looked like he'd been put through a cheese grater. Small cuts and bruises marred his face, which was so unnaturally pale that Jason was instantly on alert. Tim's hands were tied to the side of the boat, but he didn't seem to be making any particular effort to free himself. He was watching the proceedings with an almost disinterested air, and the fact that his head was lolling slightly on his shoulders seemed to indicate that Tim was injured. Jason tried to assess his condition, but couldn't make out anything obvious in the meagre light.

It didn't matter, though. Tim was _alive_ and that was the important thing. All Jason had to do was take him back from the gunmen and he'd be fine.

About half of Jason's worry shifted gears abruptly. He now had one previously-missing brother accounted for, but Dick was still -

"What the _fuck?_ " one of the men in the other boat shouted. "You've got freakin' _bats_ on your boat, you assholes!"

"Good of you to finally notice, you unobservant cretins," Damian replied icily.

"I suggest you keep your hands away from your weapons," Jason added, rising to his feet as he pointed his guns at the men in the other boat.

Of course, the men didn't listen to him and instead the boat became a flurry of activity. The six goons were bringing up their weapons in an instant, and the ringleader ducked behind Tim, using the kid as a human shield.

Jason bit back a curse. _Of course_ the gunmen weren't going to simply surrender, but it had been worth a try. Now, they just had a good, old-fashioned standoff.

Jason hated standoffs.

"You okay, Red?" he called.

Tim didn't reply. He was still observing everything, but his typically-sharp movements were sluggish. It was a good indicator of shock and Jason's concern grew.

And where the _fuck_ was Dick?

Had something happened to him? Was that why Tim was so spaced out? If Dick had drowned, the kid would be fucking traumatized …

"How about you drop your weapons?" the man behind Tim shouted, gesturing slightly with his gun as if to prove that he was armed. "I'm not afraid to ventilate his skull!"

Tim kept still in the goon's grip. He was watching Jason now, clearly trying to make himself focus. It still wasn't all that reassuring, but it was something.

Jason shook his head slowly. "If you had any idea how stupid that threat is, you _would_ be afraid. If you hurt him, I'll make sure your death is nice and slow."

"I'll tell you what," the man said lightly, "why don't we establish our respective bargaining positions and see who has the stronger leverage? For example, I have your friend and you don't want him hurt. You, on the other hand, have offered me a slow and painful death, but you definitely can't take all of us out before you and Robin go down in a hail of bullets."

"We have fifteen of your men on board," Jason pointed out. "You start shooting and you'll hit them, too."

The man shrugged. "I was fine with them drowning. Do you think I care if they die some other way?"

That was met with a chorus of disapproving sounds by the men on Jason's boat, but the ringleader kept going.

"Maybe you just need to see how serious I am - like a demonstration. Did you know that when you fish, you're supposed to throw the tiny ones back?"

"Do that and you'll lose your bargaining chip. I won't hesitate to shoot you all." Jason narrowed his eyes, steadying his aim. If that fucker made a move on Tim …

The man said something over his shoulder and the other henchmen shifted, pulling a limp figure up from the floor of the lifeboat.

"Nightwing," Damian breathed.

Shit, shit, _shit_. Jason gritted his teeth as he got a good look at Dick's lax features. He looked dead already and if it weren't for the possibility of hitting his brothers, Jason would have shot every last moron on the other boat just to end the standoff. How had everything on this stupid mission gone so completely wrong?

The man laughed. "Why would I throw the scrawny one back, though, when I can get rid of the rotting one? He's as good as dead anyway, so we may as well feed the fishies. Catch and release, boys."

Two of the men moved to heave Dick overboard and it was only then that Tim seemed to realize what was happening.

"No!" the teen screamed hoarsely. He squirmed in the gunman's grasp, managing to twist enough that he could aim a solid kick at one of the bad guys holding Dick. The man wobbled precariously on the unstable boat, falling to his knees with a curse as he only barely managed to avoid going overboard himself. Dick's unconscious form dropped to the bottom of the boat again as the men moved to face the newest threat.

Because Tim wasn't done yet.

He rolled onto his back on the narrow bench, swinging his legs up so he could wrap them around the neck of the ringleader behind him. He locked his ankles and squeezed his knees together as the man struggled to free himself.

Jason and Damian weren't idle. Damian let loose two batarangs, likely the last two in his arsenal, and struck two of the goons with pinpoint accuracy. They both dropped their weapons with pained cries, but they weren't necessarily out of the fight.

Jason managed to get another man with a shoulder shot, but Tim's struggle made it impossible to hit the person he most wanted to shoot.

And then, as quickly as it started, the fight was over.

One moment, Tim was fighting for all he was worth, the next he was lying slack across the bench with a gasping and furious gunman panting above him.

"Enough! Drop your weapons or we'll shoot them both and you can watch them bleed to death!"

Jason hesitated and the mood on the tiny lifeboat shifted as his prisoners felt the changing power balance. There wasn't any way for the vigilantes to come out on top.

Damian was out of long-range weapons.

Dick was unconscious and being held at gunpoint.

Tim clearly wasn't going to be able to rally himself for another fight anytime soon.

Jason was … well, Jason was _fucking pissed off_ , but there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

Surrendering was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, but there was no other choice.

He glanced at Damian and saw the determination on the boy's face. There was absolutely no question that he would go down fighting to save his brothers, but it just wasn't a fight they were going to win.

Jason swore.

And he lowered his weapons.

* * *

To be continued ...


	15. Over the edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... I'm just gonna go out on a limb and say I'm a terribly slow editor. This was mostly written and it still kicked my butt. It was going to be two chapters, but I kept you all waiting for far too long, so now it's just a ~9000 word long monstrosity. 
> 
> Also, just a heads-up that this one has a little more violence, profanity, and emotional distress than previous chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!

* * *

This was not good.

Jason tugged on his chains, already knowing that it was probably futile, but he wasn't about to sit around and do nothing - not while his brothers were still in danger.

It had been fear for their lives that had forced his hand and made him surrender, despite every instinct within him fighting against the urge. He'd hoped that an opportunity to escape would present itself and that they would salvage the situation somehow, but he'd been far too optimistic. While his actions had undoubtedly saved Dick and Tim from the immediate peril of a watery grave or a bullet to the head, their situations were hardly improved.

Now, instead of being surrounded by enemies on tiny boats in the middle of nowhere, the four brothers were chained up in some rotting warehouse and any chance to take their opponents by surprise had well and truly passed them by.

If Dick had been conscious during the stalemate on the boats, things might have been different. If Tim hadn't been a groggy, stumbling mess as they were led into confinement, things might have been different. If there had been fewer armed men around them, things might have been different.

But things weren't different, and Jason was not going to dwell on things he couldn't change … at least, not _those_ things.

He was absolutely going to dwell on the fact that Dick was worrying the hell out of him. The older man was only semi-conscious, and it was clear from every pained line on his face that Dick was not doing well. His forehead was an alarming shade of dark purple, leaving no question as to the injury that had brought him to his current state. He'd already thrown up twice, each time curling in on himself a little more on the hard floor in a futile effort to escape his misery. The smell that lingered in the small room was terrible, but Jason was more worried about the fact that Dick was having so much trouble staying awake.

On the occasions when Dick managed to regain enough consciousness to ask what was going on, he lasted only moments before drifting back into his hazy state. It was obvious that he was simply not capable of comprehending where he was or how much trouble he was in, but he hadn't managed to attain the pain-free embrace of healing sleep, either.

He needed medical attention, and Jason was in no position to give it to him.

The only good thing about Dick's sorry condition was that the bad guys hadn't bothered to chain him to a post as they had with the other three brothers. They'd simply bound his hands and left him in the centre of the room. If he managed to gain a little bit of clarity, Dick would be in the best position to pick their locks. That was, of course, a pretty big _if_ , particularly since concussed people were rarely known for having stellar hand-eye coordination.

Jason sighed softly.

And then there was Tim.

The teen's head was tipping forward again only to lurch upright as he fought against the urge to sleep. His response time was sluggish at best and that was due to the fact that Tim had apparently been shot earlier, which he had failed to mention because he was a ridiculous little shit. To be fair, between the explosion, impromptu swim in freezing water, loss of hearing, fear for Dick, blood-loss, and getting roughed up during the lifeboat fiasco, he probably hadn't really been in the best condition to self-assess. One of the drug-dealers had eventually noticed the blood and fashioned a crude bandage for Tim's arm, but the damage was already done - he was, quite simply, nearing the end of his endurance.

Jason frowned as he watched Tim's head bob again. The teen had stopped struggling against his chains, not that the effort had been accomplishing anything beyond tiring him out even more.

"Red, don't fall asleep," Jason called out, feeling a bit like an ass as he did so. Sleep was probably the best thing for Tim, but it wasn't the time or the place for letting go.

"He can't hear you," Damian reminded him, "and unless he's looking directly at me, I can't pass along your sentiments."

Jason gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. He _knew_ that, but he hated feeling so useless. He should have taken off his damaged helmet before allowing himself to be taken prisoner, but he hadn't thought of it in time. Now, he had no way to talk to Tim directly. Tim couldn't hear him and he couldn't read Jason's lips through his helmet, which Jason couldn't remove with his hands tied. It had therefore fallen to Damian to relay anything Jason had to say, which would have been fine if Tim could remember to glance their way once in awhile.

It was definitely going to be an issue when it came to their escape plan.

As much as he hated to admit it, when it came down to it, Jason couldn't count on Tim to be able to effectively fight his way out of anything for the time being.

That left him and Damian.

A quick glance to his left confirmed that the boy was still hale and hearty, fiddling with his bindings as he tried to break free. Damian was scowling, but the worried glances he was throwing to Dick and Tim betrayed his concern. Other than some smoke inhalation, Damian had gotten off the ship relatively intact. Minor bruises were par for the course and would not slow him down, so he was going to be good to go as soon as they were ready to bash some skulls. There was absolutely no question that Damian was going to be a pint-sized tornado of fury. The criminals wouldn't know what hit them and under any other circumstances, Jason would have let himself enjoy the show. With two wounded brothers, though, they would have to rely on stealth and speed over combat.

Jason tried to smile at him encouragingly, then rolled his eyes as he realized the kid wouldn't be able to see it anyway behind the mask.

"How much longer must we sit here?" Damian groused with a frustrated tug at his chains.

"It's been about thirty minutes," Jason pointed out. "Even without your belt, it shouldn't take you that long to get free."

"I don't see you doing any better."

Jason tried to shrug. "I think they erred on the side of overkill. I've gotten three locks undone so far, but I'm having trouble reaching the others."

Overkill was putting it mildly. If their captors had disregarded Nightwing as a threat, they had overcompensated on Red Hood. Maybe his reputation had preceded him? In any case, Jason was strapped to the pillar with multiple chains, each connected with an independent lock. That wasn't counting the chain they'd wrapped around his legs after he'd successfully kicked one of the men in the groin. Robin wasn't quite as well-secured, but they clearly hadn't been taking any chances with him, either. The scum of Gotham had obviously been comparing notes on how to subdue the bats, and they weren't taking chances. Despite his teasing tone, Jason wasn't surprised that Damian hadn't managed to shake the chains yet.

In short, he was making progress, but it was slower going than he would have liked.

The door opened suddenly, sending painfully-bright light piercing into the dim space.

Tim rallied enough to raise his head up and Damian tensed in preparation for a fight - not that there would be much of one.

Three men walked in, heavily armed and posturing with the kind of bravado cowards could only muster when their opponents were restrained.

Jason narrowed his eyes as he sized up the new arrivals. There wasn't much he could do at the moment, but he was definitely going to find a way to get some hits in before they took him down.

"Everyone still alive in here?" the first man asked in mock concern. He was tall and wiry, built like a runner rather than a brawler, and something in his features seemed familiar to Jason. His dark hair was damp and the fact that his boots squelched as he walked indicated that he had likely been one of the men fished out of the water earlier.

Make that one of the men _Jason and Damian_ had fished out of the water … the other criminals hadn't bothered returning to rescue their remaining colleagues, instead abandoning them to their fate in the dark water in favour of avoiding the potential arrival of the coast guard if the burning ship off the coast had been noticed. It had been pointlessly cruel and shockingly callous, but there had been nothing the vigilantes could do to prevent it. Now, Jason could only eye the damp man with something close to pure loathing and the promise of violent retribution. If he'd known an hour ago that the man was one of the ringleaders, Jason might have just left him in the water and saved himself the trouble.

The man in question crossed the room and nudged Nightwing's prone form with his boot. Dick groaned, but otherwise didn't respond. "Huh. I guess I'm out of the running; my bet was that he'd be dead by now. Fucker just cost me twenty bucks."

Jason gritted his teeth. He was definitely going to punch that guy first.

"I can't believe they're real," the blond man at the back muttered. He was wide-eyed and awestruck, clutching his gun like a security blanket. His finger was also far too close to the trigger for Jason's liking. "Seriously, I thought the Bats were one of those things that crazy Gothamites made up to sound tough."

"Not from around here, huh?" Jason observed wryly.

"Our arms-dealing friends are looking to expand," the first man replied. "They didn't believe us when we told them Batman and his band of merry birds keep popping up all over the place. I kept telling them it was the cost of doing business in Gotham, but they apparently thought it was better to blow up the fucking boat while trying to kill you all."

"You shouldn't have stored explosives and flammable chemicals next to each other," Damian piped up.

The man shrugged. "We were only planning to move the shipment a few hours down the coast. It wasn't going to be a problem before you showed up and wrecked it all."

"Yeah," Jason drawled, "that must've sucked to tell your boss."

"It wasn't a fun phone call," the man agreed. He fixed a cold glare on Jason. "Then again, it's not the first time I've had to make a report like that before. You keep messing things up and butting in where you aren't wanted. You took down some of our dealers last month, you know. One of them was my brother. Do you remember Artie Jones?"

Jason let out a long sigh of exasperation. _Of course_ there would be a pissed-off family member involved. Nothing else had gone right all night; why would things improve now?

Jason definitely remembered Artie Jones. The kid might have been young, but he had a rap sheet longer than Jason's arm and nothing on it reflected the actions of a misguided youth - Artie was a career criminal with an insatiable desire to be feared at any cost. Taking him down red-handed had been the highlight of Jason's night and Artie was now cooling his heels in jail where he belonged.

"You must be Charlie, then," Jason surmised. "Artie mentioned that you'd avenge him, you know. Can I call you Chuck?"

Chuck frowned. "You're a real thorn in my side, Hood."

Jason tried to shrug. "What can I say? I'm good at what I do."

The drug-runner leaned closer and grinned. "So am I."

It was hard for Jason to resist the urge to sigh again. It looked like he was well on his way towards another villainous monologue. Did every criminal in Gotham study from the same handbook? Jason could almost picture the progression. There would be a speech with vague threats in an attempt to raise tension followed by more specific details designed to inspire fear …

"What's that supposed to mean?" Damian interjected. "If you were good at your job, your ship would still be afloat and you wouldn't have lost your weapons and drugs. I would argue that you are actually quite incompetent and the fact that your brother was taken down makes me believe that it is likely a familial trait."

Jason snorted even as the man turned to Damian.

"I'd make you regret opening your mouth, but there's no point," Chuck said. "In a couple hours, you won't be my problem anymore."

There it was. The other shoe was about to drop right on schedule and Jason kind of hated being right all the time. "Oh? And why's that?"

"The boss wants to recoup some of the financial losses you've inflicted tonight. Even as we speak, arrangements are being made to auction the four of you off to the scum of the Gotham underground for a little bit of fun and games. It won't offset the loss of the guns, drugs, and boat, but it will sure make him feel better. Until then, though, you're mine." He gestured behind him and the final goon handed him a small zippered case.

"What's that?" Jason had a sinking feeling that he already knew.

Chuck opened the package and pulled out a syringe. "Think of it as a little bit of payback. I tried to come up with the perfect revenge, but then I realized I was over-thinking things."

"I doubt that," Damian muttered, but everyone ignored him.

"You're such a sanctimonious prick, you know? You're up to your eyeballs in shady dealings, but you keep bringing down anyone else who tries to get ahead the same way. I hate hypocrites." Chuck sighed theatrically. "That said, it's pretty obvious you don't partake yourself and I realized that maybe you just don't know what you're missing. If you had even the slightest _idea_ of how good this stuff can make you feel, you'd be chomping at the bit to join me. So, I've decided to give you a taste of what you're so callously destroying. I think you'll like it; it amplifies your emotions and takes everything to a whole new level. I'm told the experience is quite intense. You're probably going to want to think happy thoughts, though."

"So, that's your new concoction? I'm surprised you have any left after the whole sinking boat thing. Not much of a loss, really - I don't know it you noticed, but that stuff isn't exactly safe for human use," Jason pointed out. "You know, you can't get repeat customers if they keep keeling over."

"We figure the death rate is only about ten percent," Chuck replied easily. "We're still testing, of course. Your odds of survival are actually quite good, but on the off chance you have a bad reaction, at least I'll get some worthwhile data out of you before your heart explodes. Either way, I come out ahead."

That was less than ideal and Jason found himself tensing. There was no _fucking way_ he was going to let that dipshit inject him with his mystery mixture. "Isn't your boss going to be upset if you kill me before the auction? If I'm not up to playing in your little fight club, he might get annoyed."

"I didn't say anything about you getting the chance to fight back, did I?" Chuck smirked. "That's the only reason we haven't put a bullet in Nightwing already … even half-dead, somebody will pay for the pleasure of finishing him off. So yeah, your physical well-being isn't exactly a concern."

Jason hadn't felt true rage in a long time, not really. Anger, yes, but the overwhelming urge to cause pain to another was something he tried to control as of late. Seeing the smug bastard in front of him speak so casually of shooting his helpless brother had Jason baring his teeth in impotent fury.

"Then again," the man stood suddenly, looking at Damian appraisingly, "maybe it would be better to make you watch one of your friends take the dose. That could be fun, right? I could even let you choose which one. I can inject the kid; we haven't done too much testing on smaller body masses yet-"

Damian let out a low growl that actually had the other two goons step back in surprise. Any other time, Jason would have found it amusing, but right now, he needed the bad guys to keep their attention off his little brother. There was no way in _hell_ Jason was going to let them pump anything into Damian, particularly not a drug with the body count this particular concoction was racking up.

"You'd really dose a _kid_?" Jason scoffed.

"Well, if _you_ don't want it, my options are limited." Chuck gestured over his shoulder towards Dick and Tim. "Those two aren't exactly peak subjects at the moment, are they? It would probably just kill them outright, which is not so great for revenge _or_ human testing. It's up to you, though."

"What's happening?" Tim piped up. It was probably killing him to be in the dark, but there was nothing Jason could do about that.

"Still can't hear, huh? Should we tell him?" the drug-runner asked with a raised eyebrow. "Maybe he'd help you decide. Think he'd offer himself up as a guinea pig to save you?"

"You talk too much," Jason growled. "If you want to dose a kid or some injured vigilantes, go right ahead - I can't stop you. But know this … I _will_ get out of these chains eventually and when I do, I'm gonna be really angry. If you so much as touch any one of them, I will hurt you in ways you can't even imagine. I'll take my time and I won't let you die until I've worked out every ounce of my frustrations. So, you should consider your next move carefully."

Chuck stilled at Jason's words, staring at the damaged helmet as though trying to see the man underneath. He kept his stance relaxed, which even Jason had to admit was impressive, but the tightness around his mouth betrayed his unease. "I guess if you're chasing a high, you'll be less trouble while we're waiting for the boss to come collect you."

Jason smiled grimly under his helmet. Getting himself dosed with a potentially-deadly drug was not the best strategy he had ever come up with, but it was the only thing he could do. At least this way Damian would still have a chance to get out. Tim could make it if Damian helped him and at least the two younger boys would be able to escape whatever shit-show was being prepared for them.

Jason and Dick were probably screwed, but Jason knew Dick wouldn't blame him for that. Getting their brothers free was the best-case scenario at the moment and Jason was going to take whatever win he could.

He just hoped it was the right choice.

Over Chuck's shoulder, Tim's face contorted in obvious confusion and concern. "Hood? Robin? What's he saying? What's happening?"

Tim's voice was far too shaky for Jason's liking and it solidified his resolve. He looked up at Chuck and squared his shoulders as much as he could. "Do it."

"No!" Damian protested angrily. The boy wiggled violently in his chains as though he could free himself through sheer fury.

Chuck moved to Jason's side and gave an exasperated sigh as he caught sight of the three chains Jason had managed to slip. "Don't worry, I'll have Byers fix those for you."

He kicked one of the locks aside with his foot before kneeling on the cement floor. Jason wanted to struggle, but he forced himself to stay calm. The last thing he needed was to increase his heart rate and send the drug through his body any faster than it would already go.

Chuck pulled up Jason's jacket sleeve as far as he could and smoothly slid the needle into the exposed flesh. It was a deceptively gentle action, yet one that nevertheless could end in Jason's death.

Damian's enraged yell filled the room and Jason grimaced as the drug entered his system. There was nothing he could do to stop the liquid from coursing its way through his bloodstream. There was nothing he could do now to stop it from eventually taking hold of him.

How long did he have before he was swept away by the concoction?

Would he pass out? Overdose immediately? Become manic with energy only to keel over from a heart attack?

He clenched his fists and glared at Chuck, committing his face to memory. No matter what happened in the next hours, Jason was going to make sure the other man knew the error of his ways.

"You should start running now," Jason warned him. "I'll even give you a head start."

Chuck laughed. He patted the side of Jason's helmet lightly before tossing the syringe off to the side. "Like I said, think happy thoughts and you'll enjoy this immensely."

Jason took a deep breath and tried to calm his intense anger. If the drug-runner was telling the truth, the drug was going to intensify whatever his emotional state was, and he couldn't afford to be angry.

He was absolutely going to lay waste to something though, as soon as he was able.

The feeling of fire ran through his veins and Jason grimaced at the crawling sensation. He hated being drugged.

A flash of movement to the side drew Jason's attention and he barely had a moment to curse in surprise as Damian was leaping into action.

The boy had finally slipped his chains and was currently using said chains as a makeshift whip. He swung the heavy metal links directly at one of the armed guards, hitting him in the head and sending the man to the ground with a groan of pain. Damian didn't pause. He was already launching another attack, this time at the man standing over Jason.

The chain wrapped around Chuck's wrist, and Damian used it to pull the man off balance before delivering a vicious blow that almost certainly shattered his nose. Blood spurted from his face as Damian knocked him out and whirled to face the final man.

It was the out-of-town gun-runner who hadn't believed in Gotham's vigilantes and he stood with a shell-shocked expression on his face as Robin levelled all his attention on him.

The bad guy never even raised his gun as Robin stepped forward.

"How many people are in this warehouse?" Damian demanded.

The man swallowed dryly as the gun fell from lax fingers. "I … I don't know how many people. I never bothered to count. Please don't hurt me."

"Useless," Damian scoffed. "You were going to hurt _us_. You didn't seem to care about pain when it wasn't _you_ enduring it!"

"Robin!" Tim interrupted whatever Damian was about to say. "We don't have time to mess around; they injected Hood with the drug. We have to get out of here."

Jason blinked, hating the fuzziness that was settling over his brain. Tim was right - he didn't have long.

Robin seemed to agree and Damian knocked the final guard out with minimal fuss before rushing to Jason's side.

"I'll have you free in a moment," he promised, already tugging at Jason's restraints.

By the time he finished, Jason could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest and he could hear a roaring sound in his ears. It wasn't ideal, but he could swallow it down and work past it.

He had no other choice.

"Get Red Robin," he ordered. "I've got Nightwing."

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but Jason cut him off. "You honestly think you can carry him out of here while dodging armed bad guys? Help Red. I've got Nightwing."

He pushed himself to his feet, crossing the space to Dick's side as Damian begrudgingly moved to free Tim.

"Nightwing? You with me?" Jason asked. Dick looked even worse up close. The older man was blinking slowly, his eyes failing to track anything as Jason checked him over. _Fantastic._

Jason made short work of the chain holding Dick's wrists and turned to see how the younger boys were faring.

Damian was pulling Tim to his feet, bracing the older boy as he staggered forward on rubbery legs. He only made it a few shaky steps before Damian gave an exasperated sound of disapproval and tucked himself under Tim's good arm.

Tim didn't complain and Jason had no doubt that Damian would get the teen out of the building. The twelve-year-old looked absolutely fierce.

"Right. Let's go. I'll go first and check the hallways; you two stay behind me. If things go south, get out and call for help. Don't wait for me."

Tim turned to Damian, who repeated the instructions as Jason bent to pick up Dick. He groaned as he shouldered his brother's weight, the roaring in his head feeling like a sudden pressure on his brain.

He was running out of time.

Jason hated how Dick's arms and legs dangled freely. It was just another reminder of how injured Nightwing was. He bent slightly to retrieve one of the dropped weapons off the floor. It wasn't much, but it would have to do; he couldn't exactly carry multiple guns and manage Nightwing's unconscious form at the same time, particularly not when his vision was beginning to pulse with his heartbeat. It wasn't a good sign.

He peered around the doorway, checking the hall for any other armed people. It was clear.

Jason made his way to the left as quickly as possible, fairly certain that he still recalled the way out despite his aching head. Damian didn't correct him, so he took it as a good sign. After all, nothing would be gained by having to backtrack. Already, he felt as though his heart was about to burst out of his chest.

Was this what the other victims had felt?

Had they endured the crawling skin and the sweat that ran down their backs? Had they felt their hearts pounding and their ears roaring? Had they been forced to blink increasingly irritated eyes to keep their vision clear?

Was it too late to start thinking happy thoughts?

Jason gritted his teeth. He was going to bring those fucking drug dealers down. He was going to make sure they faced justice for their crimes and that they regretted everything they'd done.

He tightened his grip on Dick's limbs, feeling a pang as Dick groaned slightly.

The hallway opened up into a storage area that was filled with wooden crates. Jason could hear voices beyond the first row of boxes.

He glanced behind him to ensure that Damian and Tim were still there. His younger brothers were more than capable of moving in complete silence and Jason couldn't fight the need to be certain that they were safe.

It was, of course, at that exact moment that the first gunshots broke through the quiet, shattering any hope Jason had of making it out undetected.

Damian was already shoving Tim into a recess between two crates and Jason wasted no time depositing Dick in there as well. Tim grabbed Dick with his one good arm, cushioning the larger man's fall. Both vigilantes ended up in a heap on the floor, but they were alive. With any luck, Jason would make certain they stayed that way.

"Stay down!" he ordered with an emphatic hand gesture before turning to face the oncoming battle.

Tim let out a protest, already trying to struggle out from under Dick, but Jason was far beyond caring.

He raised his pilfered weapon, shooting the first two men in their kneecaps as per his usual _modus operandi_. Behind him, he could hear Damian as the boy engaged with other assailants. He couldn't worry about him.

He couldn't afford to focus on the fact that the warehouse was absolutely full of people trying to kill his brothers.

Full of drug-runners and arms-dealers.

Full of cowards and murderers …

Pieces of shit in the guise of bad guys with no morals and even less humanity - they would kill anyone who stood in their way. They had killed innocent people - innocent _kids_ \- for profit, and he hadn't forgotten the plan to sell the vigilantes to the highest bidder so they could be handed over for a long and torturous death at the hands of their worst enemies.

Jason's blood pounded. His senses screamed at him to protect his family, but he fought to keep himself in the moment.

He couldn't let himself get distracted with thoughts of Dick's head wound or Tim's blood loss. He couldn't divert his attention to Damian as he fought with men twice his size.

Men who wanted to hurt a kid.

Men who wanted to _kill his brothers_ …

Sell them to be _tortured and murdered_ -

Jason blinked.

The man in front of him was on the ground, blood pouring from his chest in thick red rivulets.

The bad guys were screaming, either at him or at their fallen comrade, Jason couldn't be certain, but they were clearly extremely surprised at the change of events.

Jason felt his grip tighten on his weapon. He had shot that man.

He had shot that man in the chest.

Blood stained the ground and Jason stared at it in momentary confusion.

The man was dead.

Jason had killed him.

_He wasn't a threat anymore._

Jason grinned.

He fired again, not bothering to aim for extremities any longer. The bad guys of Gotham had gotten too complacent - far too used to the bats refusing to use deadly force. They didn't fear the guardians of the night the way they should; they didn't respect the fact that they were merely _permitted_ to keep living - they took it as a right when in reality it was a gift.

It was a gift Jason had no intention of giving again.

He fired until his weapon clicked empty and he was down to hand-to-hand fighting. Jason didn't pause. He was perfectly at home in close-quarters combat. He smiled as he felt bones crack beneath his fists and the spray of blood splattered against his helmet. His own blood sang out in accompaniment as he cut a gruesome swath through the men who had dared to hurt his family.

His vision was streaked with red, his mind lost in the power of his righteous fury.

A hand reached out to grab him and Jason whirled, throwing the figure into a nearby crate where it hit solidly before crumpling to the ground.

Jason advanced.

Other hands reached for him and Jason moved to crush his newest opponent with his bare hands.

No one would stop him.

He would protect his brothers.

" _Red Hood! Stop!_ "

The voice meant nothing. Jason barely felt the blows as his foes attempted to stop him. They wouldn't succeed.

" _Please!_ "

Begging. Finally, they knew what they were up against. They knew fighting back was useless; they knew Red Hood was fully deserving of every nightmare-inducing story told about him in the dark corners of crime alley. They would fear him. He tightened his grip on his foe, letting the triumphant roar of combat sing in his bones. His adversary wasn't strong enough to stop him. No one would stop him -

"Jason!"

The name cut through the haze momentarily, an instant of confusion in an otherwise perfectly ordered world.

_What the fuck?_

"Jason, let him go. Please let him go!"

Was that _Tim's_ voice?

He felt only confusion as hands reached for him, slowly this time, gently prying something from his grasp as Jason tried to get enough air. He felt like he'd run a marathon during the hottest day of the year. His mind swam as sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he gasped.

He needed to get his helmet off.

He let go of whatever he'd been holding, instead reaching up to undo the clasps that held his helmet in place. He dropped it heavily to the ground, not caring about the loud thump it made as the metal impacted against the concrete surface.

His eyes watered and stung behind his domino mask, but Jason couldn't fix that problem.

The world cleared slightly as he drew in air and Jason stared in utter horror at what appeared before him.

Tim and Damian were on the ground. Tim was partially in front of his younger brother, shielding him protectively as he held a trembling arm up as though in supplication.

Damian was hunched over, gasping for breath as he held his throat in a manner that was all too familiar to Jason.

He'd nearly been strangled. Someone had tried to strangle Damian.

Jason's rage grew. Someone had tried to murder a kid - _his brother_ \- and he was going to lay a bloody fucking waste to everyone -

Only then did he realize how silent the warehouse was.

He turned slowly, unsure of what he would see, but knowing instinctively that he wasn't going to like it.

The floor was littered with corpses.

Over a dozen people were scattered about, mere husks now with very little resemblance to the human beings they had once been.

Some had been shot with all the destructive horror that a large calibre bullet could inflict on soft tissue and brittle human bones. Others lay shattered and bloody on the ground, faces pummelled to a pulp by fists and feet. Teeth were strewn around the battleground along with bullet casings and blood. The level of violence inflicted upon them would have been nauseating to anyone else, but Jason was intimately familiar with horrific scenes.

He recognized his own handiwork.

His hands throbbed as though suddenly realizing the abuse he'd put them through. His gloves were covered in gore; his jacket was covered in gore. The entire corridor of the warehouse looked like a one-man abattoir had just passed through.

And that was likely accurate.

Jason turned back to his brothers.

Damian had regained some of his breath and was fighting his way to his feet, moving now to stand in front of Tim, who was looking even more pale and sickly than he had a few minutes ago.

Damian's every move betrayed his wariness as he watched Jason take in the carnage around them. He stood at the ready, unarmed but hardly defenceless. Tim sagged behind him, his energy clearly spent as his limbs trembled visibly. There were drops of blood spattered across his ghostly pale face, but the teen made no move to wipe them away nor did he attempt to stand up.

What had happened? Jason stepped forward on shaking legs, ready to check on the younger two, needing to make sure they were okay, needing to find Dick and make sure nothing had happened to him-

Damian blocked him, standing resolutely between Jason and Tim while still maintaining enough distance that he could launch an attack if needed.

He wasn't Damian in that moment - he was Robin and he was on the defensive, ready to do whatever he had to in order to defend the others.

It was in that moment of clarity that Jason realized exactly what he had done. The memory of tossing Tim into the crates burned its way into his consciousness, followed by strangling Damian as the boy tried futilely to break free of his iron grip.

He had done this.

He had hurt his brothers.

He wanted to throw up.

"I don't-" he swallowed dryly. "I don't understand."

All those bodies. He had killed them. He had murdered an entire warehouse full of bad guys. He had attacked his own brothers.

His hands were bloody.

His heart raced and he felt ill.

What was he going to do? How had it even come to this? He hadn't killed in years - not since he'd successfully fought back the pit madness and made his way back into the family. He'd never faltered in his mission. He'd maimed and injured, but he'd never killed. He'd never lost himself in that all-too-familiar blood lust and green haze of Lazarus Pit induced insanity.

But now Damian was watching him, ready to fight him if needed.

He had revelled in the feeling of power and righteousness as he had laid waste to his enemies and it sickened him.

How was he going to explain himself?

_What would Bruce say?_

_Fuck_. What was Bruce going to say?

Jason had straight-up murdered people. He had nearly murdered his brothers.

The rage had taken him so fully and completely that he hadn't even realized how brutal he had gotten.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the slew of memories that fought to the forefront of his mind.

_Cutting off heads and putting them in a duffle bag._

_Beating Tim half to death._

_Trying to kill Bruce._

_Fighting with Dick._

_Rage._

_Death._

_Violence._

Bruce wasn't going to let it go this time. There was no chance that Bruce was going to accept temporary insanity as a defence - the man lived and breathed his precious code and Jason had flaunted it far too many times in the past.

He was done.

There was no coming back from this.

Bruce would throw him into Arkham for sure, leaving him to rot in the same building that housed the Joker. He wouldn't even be wrong to do it.

But Jason couldn't let it happen. He couldn't give in and let himself get locked up.

His breath came in strangled gasps, so close to becoming sobs. He was going to lose everything.

No more Alfred, with his calming presence and unflappable demeanour.

No more nights spent racing along the rooftops with his siblings as they played stupid games in the lulls between disasters.

No more quiet evenings spent working on his bike in the cave while Bruce researched cases on the computer.

Jason let out a pained cry and stepped back from Damian's guarded figure.

He had failed his family. He had dropped back into the mind of the killer he had once been and it was far too late for him to redeem himself.

He needed to get away. He needed to run before Bruce found him and dragged him away.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Jason was running. His feet pounded against the concrete as he pushed himself to ever faster speeds. He had to leave.

His hands shook and the thrumming in his ears was approaching painful levels, but he couldn't stop. There was nothing else he could do; he was too dangerous to be around and his brothers would be the first to fall if he didn't get away.

There was nothing but the overpowering instinct to run, and Jason didn't even try to fight it.

* * *

He ran until his lungs felt as though they were going to burn through his ribcage and he finally had to pause to catch his breath. There was no way he'd gone far enough - not even close - but he needed to figure out what he had to do.

His jacket needed to go, that much was certain. All his gear had to go; it was all bloodstained and probably laced with trackers if Bruce had been going through a protective streak recently.

Jason's hands shook. They were still covered in gore and it was all he could smell. He'd killed people.

Everything blurred and his racing thoughts made it difficult to think clearly. He had to figure this out.

But how could he do that when all he could see was his own hands around his brother's throat?

He'd lost himself to madness again and had nearly strangled Damian.

Or _had_ he strangled Damian?

Jason paused, staring at his hands in horror. He had gripped the boy tightly, he knew that; he heard Tim's pleas for him to stop. He remembered tossing Tim into a crate, barely registering as the teen fell to the floor. Had Tim stopped him or had he actually killed Damian?

For that matter, had Tim gotten up again after being thrown? He'd been on the ground, listless and pale with blood splattered on his face. Had he been breathing?

Jason cursed. He couldn't recall the order of events. What had happened? So many dead bodies and they were definitely put down by him - his reddened hands were ample testimony of that fact.

He had killed everyone and then he had run.

He had left his brothers behind even when he _knew_ the bad guys had reinforcements incoming.

Had he left them to be recaptured? Were they being tortured even now?

Or were they already dead?

Jason sank to his knees in growing terror. There was no way he would have simply left the others if they had needed him. The only way he would have abandoned them was if they were far beyond his help and he was still in immediate danger.

It was hard to get further from needing his help than if he had killed them himself.

Breathing was suddenly incredibly difficult as Jason fought to draw air into lungs of stone. His brothers were dead. He had killed them and everyone else in that godforsaken warehouse.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, hitting the ground like raindrops.

 _What had he done_?

How could he have done that?

It shouldn't have been a surprise; it wasn't like he hadn't tried before. He vividly recalled numerous attempts on Tim in particular and he had tried to be so careful with the teen after the Pit madness had finally receded. He hadn't trusted himself and now he knew that he had been right to doubt.

And Dick …

What had happened to Dick?

Jason trembled as he searched his fractured thoughts. Dick was hurt; Jason had been carrying him -

He'd thrown him down. Dick was injured and helpless and Jason had tossed him aside like a broken doll.

But was Dick injured or had he already been dead? Jason would _never_ have thrown him if it would have hurt him, right? He would have died to protect the older man.

The memory felt real, though; it felt true.

Nausea rose within him as Jason tried to deny it. His brothers were dead and he had killed them.

He had broken Batman's rule and in the worst possible way. He had single-handedly destroyed the family, murdered his siblings, broken Alfred's heart, betrayed Bruce, cast himself into the fiery pits of madness once again -

He needed to get away.

A sob broke through his defences and Jason didn't bother to choke it back. What was the use? Everything was over; he had nothing left. The people who had trusted him were either dead or would be seeking vengeance and there was nothing left at all.

Jason staggered to his feet.

He needed to run. He needed to think. Why couldn't he _think_?

Every step he took sounded like an accusation. Every footfall pounded the names of his victims into his skull like an ice-pick to the brain.

_Dick._

_Tim._

_Damian._

They deserved more. They were fucking heroes and he had killed them -

 _Murdered them_.

Jason screamed, falling to his knees once more as he let out his agony. His head pounded with the torment. He was burning. He was already burning, feeling the fire as it licked at him.

He had never thought of himself as religious, but there was something fitting about the heat rushing through his body.

He almost welcomed it and the cleansing that it would bring.

But he was afraid.

" _Red Hood_."

The voice was low and familiar. It once brought comfort and security, but now it promised nothing but pain and vengeance and Arkham and -

"Can you hear me?"

Jason panted, not bothering to raise his head as he sagged on the rooftop. He was too late. There was no escape now.

"I'm here to help you," Batman spoke again and Jason let out a guttural laugh at the absurdity of that statement.

 _Help_? Jason had just murdered Batman's children. He had killed a warehouse full of villains and three of Gotham's heroes. The only help Batman would be giving would be in the form of broken bones and a room in the most crooked asylum in the United States.

But Jason wasn't going there.

If he was going to die, it was going to be fighting, not wasting away a few doors down from the fucking Joker.

He climbed to his feet, finally raising his face to meet the gaze of his executioner. "You found me quickly, old man. I guess you had good motivation."

"It took far longer than I would have liked," Batman replied. "You've been missing for nearly three hours. I was already on my way back to Gotham when I got word, so I came out and started looking for you as soon as I could. You weren't easy to find by any means."

Jason nodded slowly. "Like I said, you must have been motivated."

"We need to get you back to the cave-"

"Fuck that," Jason interrupted, his blood boiling at the thought. He couldn't face Alfred with the knowledge of what he had done tainting his very soul. "This ends now."

"What do you mean?" If Jason didn't know better, he would have sworn Batman sounded surprised.

"I'm not going back to Arkham."

Batman's voice caught. "I'm not sending you to Arkham."

It was worse than Jason had originally thought. No Arkham.

 _Only vengeance_.

Jason nodded slowly. It was better this way. It was better to die at Batman's hands than to give himself over to the madness again. At least this way, he wouldn't hurt anyone else.

But he would go down fighting; there was no other way for him.

Jason squared his body, readying for the confrontation. They'd been here before, him and Batman, on so many occasions. Their time had simply run out. He clenched his fists. "I understand why you're doing this," he said. "I deserve it; I know I do, but it's not in me to give up."

"I'm not going to fight you," Batman intoned. He made no move to approach, no gesture that could be in any way construed as an attack. If anything, he appeared to be made of stone, no more imposing than one of Gotham's countless gargoyles hidden in the shadows.

Jason wasn't fooled. "There's no way you're letting this go. I'm a murderer. You've told me before how this would end if I killed again and I finally get it now. Let's just get it over with."

"What happened to those people wasn't your fault," Batman insisted and he sounded so _fucking earnest_ that Jason laughed.

"That's not your usual tune. I killed them all. Their blood is still on my hands; it's all I can smell. Does that sound like it wasn't my fault?"

Even through the cowl, Jason could tell that a pained expression crossed the Bat's face. "You were drugged -"

Jason scoffed again. "Last time, it was pit madness and it didn't make a fucking difference to your code. Why would drugs make any of it better this time around? At what point do the excuses stop coming and everything just boils down to me being a murderer?"

"Hood-"

" _I killed my brothers_!" Jason screamed. His voice echoed for a moment before fading away. "I killed them with my bare hands and then I left their bodies in a warehouse without a second thought. I killed your kids. No excuse can fix that. _Nothing_ can fix that! So stop fucking pretending like you're suddenly okay with me being a murderer and do whatever you fucking came here to do!"

There was a second or two of horrible silence and then Batman took a step forward.

Jason couldn't help it - he flinched, retreating back despite every instinct in him screaming to attack.

Batman stilled and held his hands out in a non-threatening gesture. "Hood - _Jason_. I need you to listen to me." He reached up and, as Jason watched in stunned disbelief, he unfastened the cowl and pulled it back. "Jason, _son_ , I'm not here to hurt you."

Jason swallowed dryly. "Someone could see you-"

"I don't care," Bruce replied evenly. "I'm here to help my son and nothing is going to stop me from doing that."

"I'm not your son," Jason muttered. He could feel tears forming in his eyes, but he couldn't stop them. "I _killed_ your sons. I killed so many people."

"You didn't -"

"I did!" There was no stopping the tears now. Jason looked down at his hands and wondered just how much of that blood belonged to Dick. He'd been bleeding, hadn't he? Tim had bled. His pale face haunted Jason's memory. He'd choked the kid into unconsciousness only a couple weeks before and now he'd followed through and ended him. And Damian …

Damian was just a child.

Jason had murdered a child.

"I don't understand how it happened," he admitted softly. "I wanted to protect them."

Bruce stepped forward again, reaching out even as Jason shook his head. "They aren't dead, Jason. They're alive and they're with Alfred right now. I can take you to them-"

" _No_!" Jason wasn't stupid. He knew what he had seen and felt. The roomful of bodies was more than enough to convince him. "You're lying to me!"

"Jason, please," Bruce begged. "I know you're confused. I know that you don't feel very well right now, but you need to believe me. Damian found everyone's gear at the warehouse and he called the Batmobile. They all made it home and Alfred called me to tell me what happened. You didn't kill them; they're alive and they're going to be fine."

Jason shook his head. There was no way that was true. He had seen them on the ground; he'd felt them die. He'd left them behind.

It was real, wasn't it?

The blood was real.

"Jason, I swear to you that they're alive. I swear it on the graves of my parents."

Jason looked up at that, instinctively knowing that Bruce would _never_ make such an oath in anything less than complete honesty. It was the most important thing in his world and the only thing he guarded as fiercely as Gotham.

"They're alive?" he whispered.

Bruce nodded. "Yes."

"But the blood …" Jason blinked in confusion. It was too hot to think. It was too hard to make sense of anything. "I killed all those men, didn't I?"

"Yes."

The reply was short, but it hit Jason with all the force of a knife in his gut. He couldn't even muster up the energy to react. There was no relief to be found - he was still a killer. "What happens now?"

"We go home," Bruce replied softly. "We go home and we flush your system until every last trace of the drug is gone and then when you're feeling better, we are going to ensure that every single person associated with this drug ring is brought to justice."

"You can't be serious," Jason frowned. "I _killed_ people; I can't be trusted."

Bruce let a sad smile cross his face. "I trust you."

"You told me before that if I kept killing, then you would -"

"This wasn't your fault," Bruce interjected. "I know what I told you when you first came back and there isn't a day that goes by where I don't wish I'd handled that situation differently."

Jason was already shaking his head. "You were right."

Bruce took a step forward again and Jason could only watch him. "I was completely wrong, Jason. So many people hurt you; _I_ hurt you. You told me exactly how you felt and I just didn't hear you. You needed me and I wasn't there for you. I should have helped you work through the effects of the Lazarus Pit; I should have welcomed you home. And I should have told you just how important you are to me."

Jason's knees felt weak and it was only Bruce's sudden grip on his arm that kept his descent to the rooftop slow and gentle. Bruce never let him go, instead following him down to sit beside him. Despite the fact that Jason felt as though he were on fire, Bruce's hand was comforting and grounding, the single point of contact tethering him to reality as his heart pounded madly in his chest.

"I swore to myself that I wouldn't make that mistake again," Bruce said softly. "You are my son and none of this was your fault. I'm going to help you through it and I'm going to take you home."

Jason's breath hitched and he didn't resist as Bruce reached out and tugged him closer, enveloping him in a firm hug.

"And you are so, _so_ important to me, Jason."

Jason clung to Bruce's arm. His vision swam and he was suddenly aware of burning tears trickling their way down his face.

He was too hot. He was burning. His heart pounded wildly and Jason felt dizzy from the sensation.

"Bruce?"

The older man made a hum of response, never once easing his grip on Jason.

"I think I need help."

The last thing he heard before letting himself fall into darkness was Bruce calling his name.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's not a cliffhanger, right? More of a fade-to-black thing. He'll be fine ... 😇  
> I just really wanted Bruce being a good dad, so poor Jason got hurt.  
> On another note, I think this story will be wrapping up soon. There are a couple things I want to explore, so maybe one or two more chapters ...


	16. Scattered Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back. I haven't abandoned this story!
> 
> I am, however, absolutely horrified it took me so long to update this. The last few months have been something else (as I'm sure everyone is experiencing right now) and it's been very hard to get back in the saddle. I have every intention of continuing on, though, and I will try not to leave you hanging that long again.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter and I'm incredibly sorry that I didn't reply to you all individually. Your kind words blew me away and please know that I appreciate the time you took to write me.
> 
> Just a head's up - the chapter title pretty much sums up the writing in this one. It's kind of all over the place, but it's from Damian's perspective and he's having trouble staying on topic because he's really, really, tired. (In reality, it's because my own thoughts have been pretty scattered lately and it was very hard trying to make proper sentences!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

* * *

This chapter continues on from the previous three. Just so you don't have to read them, the basic summary is that the boys thought they were going up against a simple boat-based drug lab, but it turned out to be a joint operation with a bunch of heavily-armed gun-runners. Things went wrong, the boat sank, and Dick was badly wounded. They all got captured and Jason was given a dose of the experimental drug which messed with his mind and amplified his aggressive feelings, resulting in him single-handedly killing a bunch of bad guys. He was in a pretty bad state, but Bruce found him and talked him down, assuring him that he didn't blame Jason for what happened.

* * *

Damian sighed tiredly as he watched his brother sleep. For once, Grayson's rest seemed untroubled and his body was relaxed. It probably wouldn't remain that way, but Damian could still hope it was a sign that the worst was past them.

He _needed_ the worst to be past them.

He hated seeing his brother like this and Damian was entirely unused to the feeling of helplessness that overcame him as he watched his sibling suffer.

Grayson had been in rough shape ever since their escape from the warehouse. His concussion left him unable to fully rest due to pain, confusion, and nausea. In the beginning, even keeping bland broth down had proven nearly impossible, and Damian had come to dread mealtimes due to the inevitable reappearance of whatever nourishment Grayson managed to choke down.

It had been a long, stressful three days and Damian was exhausted. He wasn't about to complain, though; _everyone_ was exhausted and moaning about it wouldn't change that fact.

Pennyworth never uttered a word of complaint and he had to have been just as tired as Damian. After all, he was responsible for the well-being of everyone in the manor, two of whom were injured and one of whom was recovering from a drug overdose. Damian had only one patient, and even then he did not have to worry about preparing meals, washing soiled linens, or performing medical treatments. Those tasks fell solely on Pennyworth's shoulders, while all Damian had to do for his self-appointed task was watch over Grayson while he slept and help him through the bouts of sickness that plagued him.

It probably wasn't enough, but it was necessary and Damian took his responsibility very seriously. He had even taken to sleeping in Grayson's room with him, just to ensure that he was being monitored at all times. Pennyworth had begrudgingly allowed his constant vigil, likely in the knowledge that arguing with Damian would be futile. Maybe it even eased some of Pennyworth's worry to know Grayson was being cared for when he couldn't be present himself. It certainly helped Damian to know that his brother was safe and despite his distaste for the more pungent aspects of Grayson's recovery, Damian was more than capable of cleaning up after him.

And if, as he suspected, his brother was improving, then it wouldn't be long before everything would get back to normal.

So, no … he had no intention of voicing his exhaustion to anyone.

It didn't stop him from feeling the weight of every hour that passed, though.

Damian kept an appraising look on his sibling. The un-bruised side of Grayson's face was pressed against the back of the couch and he was slightly curled on the cushions, snoring faintly. His blanket had slipped again, leaving his bare feet exposed, but Damian made no move to fix it. Every other time he had tried, Grayson had simply kicked the covering off again and burrowed deeper into the cushions. It was a pointless fight and Damian had already assured himself that the room's temperature was in Grayson's typical comfort range; the older man wouldn't freeze as he sprawled haphazardly on the too-short couch.

The couch was ridiculous.

Why would Father have even purchased such a useless piece of furniture?

There were other rooms with other couches and most of them would have been long enough to easily fit the entirety of Grayson's body. Why Grayson had chosen this particular room for his relocation was beyond Damian. Said couch certainly didn't _look_ like it would be more comfortable than his bed, but Grayson had insisted on the change of scenery. For some reason, only _this_ room would do and the stubborn acrobat would not be dissuaded.

All he would say was that he wanted to _sit up_ for a while and that he was tired of sleeping.

On that particular fact, Damian could only agree. The older man had done little else _but_ sleep for the past three days, and it had only been that morning that he claimed his headaches and nausea were finally abating. Damian wasn't certain if he believed him or not; it wouldn't be the first time his brother had stretched the truth to make others feel better. For that matter, it wasn't above Grayson's tactics of emotional manipulation to claim health in order to simply ensure he didn't have to stay in his room any longer. Pennyworth had declared that Grayson was improving, however, and the old man's word was above reproach. So, whether he was ready for it or not, the move to the tiny couch had been all but assured.

In the end, Damian needn't have worried about Grayson straining himself. Despite his insistence that he was done sleeping, once settled in his new location, the vigilante had almost immediately dropped off and started drooling on the furniture.

Perhaps Pennyworth had foreseen that eventuality and that was the reason he hadn't fought the relocation.

The butler was tricky like that.

After that, there had been nothing more for Damian to do. It wasn't as though Grayson required any particular care in his current state. Other than repeatedly kicking off his blanket, Grayson had done nothing of note in the nearly two hours he'd been sleeping, leaving Damian to play mindless games on his phone while keeping silent vigil. It wasn't any different than what he'd been doing since their return from the warehouse, and despite his insistence on the matter, doing exactly the same thing in a different room wasn't nearly as exciting as Grayson seemed to think.

_And he'd need to charge his phone soon …_

"How's he doing?"

Drake's voice was unexpected, but Damian refrained from showing his surprise. He glanced up and noted the older boy's presence at the doorway where he loitered in apparent uncertainty, as though debating if he should enter the room or leave entirely.

"He is asleep, despite his claims that he is no longer tired. I do believe he is improving, though. He managed to take some soup earlier without making himself sick. He also attempted to make several jokes. Before you ask, they were all terrible and do not bear repeating."

Drake gave a thin smile and apparently made up his mind to join his brothers. He flicked on a lamp as he passed, filling the room with a warm glow.

Damian blinked in surprise. He hadn't even noticed how dark it had gotten.

"Sleep is good for him," Drake noted quietly. He settled himself in the nearest armchair and let out a soft sigh.

Damian found himself assessing the teen's condition almost without conscious thought. Drake still looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and an almost permanent crease in his forehead, but the past few days had done wonders for his recovery. His hearing was thankfully returning, though it wasn't quite back to normal; he was benched until he could reliably wear a comm and his access to the cave had been restricted under Pennyworth's orders that he get some rest. It was telling that Drake hadn't even protested the verdict, though Damian suspected he was simply logging onto the Batcomputer from his laptop.

"The way Pennyworth tells it, sleep would cure all that ails us," Damian agreed pointedly.

Drake either completely missed the subtle hint or chose to ignore it. "Have you seen Jason today?"

Damian shook his head. "He's still working in the cave."

It was unlikely that that situation would change anytime soon.

While Grayson had slept for the past three days, Todd had done the exact opposite. Once it became clear he would survive the effects of the drug, he had thrown himself entirely into his work. His appearances outside of the cave were intermittent at best, and it was likely he only emerged when Pennyworth insisted that he rest. Damian couldn't fault Todd for his focus, though; the investigation being conducted was important and time-sensitive. Todd and Father had been relentless in their pursuit of every single member of the two gangs that had nearly killed the brothers and they were nearly ready to bring down the entire operation. They would have to strike soon to ensure that the groups were still in a state of disarray after the disaster on the boat – if they waited too long, there was a chance the organizations could restructure or the newly-identified bosses might flee from justice, both of which were unacceptable outcomes.

In any case, the take-down would likely be happening soon and Damian had every intention of being part of the mission to crush the criminals.

Watching over Grayson had given him ample time to think, and there was little else to think about beyond the failed mission and Damian's desire for vengeance.

And he definitely wanted vengeance.

The gangs would pay for every terrible thing they had done, and Damian would be there to ensure it. Maybe then his troubled conscience would ease, but he had his doubts.

The memory of all those men left to die in the unforgiving waters of the Atlantic haunted him. When he tried to sleep, he could hear the cries of the doomed as the boats left them behind in the darkness. He knew with agonizing certainty what their deaths would have entailed and the fact that their own colleagues had abandoned them to that fate left him horrified.

It didn't matter that he had been captured and unable to stop it; Damian felt the weight of those deaths pressing on his shoulders. Sometimes, it felt like he couldn't breathe from the pressure of it all.

The utter callousness and disregard for life didn't stop there. The gangs ran experimental drugs with a high mortality rate. They dealt in weapons that had the potential to kill countless people. They thought nothing of selling injured vigilantes to be tortured and murdered for the entertainment of the criminal underworld.

Damian clenched his jaw and looked over at Grayson once more. His brother was still sleeping peacefully, unaware of the dark turn Damian's thoughts had taken. The bruise on Grayson's face was a constant reminder of how close he had come to that fate, and Damian was determined to settle that score as soon as possible.

After all, if Grayson couldn't take vengeance for his injuries himself, Damian would have to do it for him and he would do it in spades.

Drake shifted in his seat, pulling Damian from his heavy thoughts for a moment before he recalled that Grayson wasn't the only one the gangs had hurt. Though Drake was well on the mend, there was no chance that he'd be able to participate in the impending mission. That just meant that Damian would have to avenge Drake's injuries, too, not that he was going to make any announcements to that effect.

Drake would be insufferable if he thought Damian cared.

The teen seemed unperturbed by Damian's gaze, seemingly intent on studying Grayson's sleeping form. "You know the contest ended last night, right?"

The change in topic was unexpected and his words hit Damian with surprising force. "I … hadn't realized it, no."

With everything that had happened, the competition had completely slipped Damian's tired mind. When had he last consulted the tally? When had he last worried about his place in the standings?

It felt like weeks, but it could only have been days. That meant that days ago he had been confident in his victory, but now … now he had somehow forgotten all about it.

And now it had ended unceremoniously. No fanfare or bragging rights – just a forgotten finale and a sombre gathering. It was hardly what he had originally envisioned.

Drake nodded slowly. "Yup. Over and done with."

"I'm not certain how many rescues were performed during our last mission, but I assume it's safe to say that I was not victorious." Damian snuck a quick glance at Drake, waiting for the inevitable teasing, but his brother just slouched further in the chair.

"It's not a big deal," Drake finally replied with a shrug. "Can't win them all. It's totally normal to be disappointed-"

"I'm not _disappointed_ ," Damian interrupted with a huff. "Far from it. I don't care about the results in the slightest."

Drake's forehead creased a little more and Damian bit back the urge to tell him his face was going to stick that way if he kept it up. The older boy was clearly fishing for something to say, but coming up empty.

Unsurprising, really. Drake could be truly incompetent at times.

"You don't believe me."

Drake gave the faint echo of a smile. "You were pretty keen on the whole thing, Dami, and it sucks when you work hard for something and it doesn't work out the way you intended. It would be completely understandable, _natural_ even, for you to be a little upset."

His brother was correct, and that was the irritating part. Damian would normally have been _more_ than a little upset at failing. He knew that and it was pointless to argue otherwise. But it was also _wrong_.

He wasn't upset. He wasn't ashamed of his own performance. He wasn't even angry at losing. He was almost _relieved_ that it was over.

If there was one thing the contest had illustrated beyond any doubt, it was that the members of his family were in mortal peril far more often then they should be. Until they had started paying attention, Damian hadn't even noticed how many times he had come within a hair's breadth of losing a sibling.

What did it say that such close calls had become almost second nature to them by now? That they weren't even worth commenting on? That every one of them would face death, brush themselves off, and make a joke before continuing on with their lives as normal?

Their jobs were not exactly _safe_ , and close calls were to be expected, but the frequency of those encounters should never have been allowed to cross the line into commonplace.

Were they so used to skirting the line that they no longer even noticed how close they came to it? Were they becoming complacent and reckless in their quest for justice?

In light of that realization, how could Damian be angry that his siblings weren't in _more_ danger so that he could save them from death and injury with greater frequency?

Only a fool would wish that on his family, and Damian was no fool.

Damian frowned. "That's not it at all. I am _truly_ not disappointed. I thought I would be. I know that you all expect it of me and were anticipating that I would rail against defeat, but I don't feel that way. I feel nothing at all about it."

"Nothing?" If Drake was trying to hide the dubious tone in his voice, he was doing a terrible job of it. "That's not really like you, Dami."

 _Like him_?

Damian felt a rush of embarrassment. _What did Drake know of it_? "Perhaps that's part of the problem; you all think I'm incapable of self-control. You expect me to behave a certain way and make no allowances for me to do otherwise. If I were angry about this, you'd mock me for losing, but since I'm ambivalent, you can just claim I'm bitter. I know what you think of me; you think that I cannot accept defeat graciously and that I'm deluding myself, but I'm _not_. I didn't win and I _don't_ _care_!"

He hadn't realized that he'd raised his voice until Grayson made a quiet noise of distress from his nest on the couch. Damian turned to him quickly, hoping he hadn't completely disturbed his rest. The older man was thankfully still sleeping, settling quickly as silence once more fell over the room, and Damian allowed himself a small breath of relief. He didn't want to be responsible for bringing his brother back to consciousness when he needed to heal.

He turned his attention back to Drake, whose wide-eyed gaze betrayed his surprise at the turn in the conversation.

"I _should care_ ," Damian continued. His breath hitched slightly, but he kept his voice low. "I worked for it. I _wanted_ it at the beginning, but I haven't thought about it in days. I suppose after the warehouse … maybe it just isn't as important as it once was. Perhaps it doesn't matter so much _who_ does the rescuing, as long as _someone_ does. If it hadn't been for Todd, we likely wouldn't have made it out of that situation at all, and it is difficult to be ungrateful about that."

"You're not wrong," Drake conceded. "Things got pretty hairy in there. I guess they're still a little hairy if I'm being honest."

"How so?" Damian couldn't help but feel a rush of something close to gratitude that Drake didn't pursue the topic of the contest. He was still warm with embarrassment from his outburst, though even he had to admit that his nerves were likely frayed from lack of sleep and stress. Still, exhaustion was no excuse for showing weakness.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping Drake wouldn't notice the calming technique. He just needed a moment to compose himself and then he would be able to handle whatever new problem was about to be unveiled. Whatever Drake's issue was, perhaps it was something Damian could actually fix. Maybe it was something that he could accomplish beyond contemplating vengeance and guilt or worrying over Grayson. After all, it was unlikely that Drake would be able to solve any problems himself; Damian's assistance would be more than necessary, and for that, he needed to bring himself fully into the moment.

He could fix this.

"It just feels like everything is all messed up, if that makes sense? Everything went so completely _wrong_ and there was nothing we could do about it. Now, Dick's hurt and Jason's … whatever it is that's going on with him. It's like something broke in him and now he's avoiding us."

"He's definitely avoiding us," Damian agreed, "but he's hardly withdrawn from everyone. He's been working with Father almost non-stop."

"And what does that say? He's willing to work with _Bruce_ for days, but he won't even come in the same room with any of us."

Damian made a non-committal noise. Drake wasn't entirely correct about that, but he saw no reason to disabuse him of the notion. In truth, when he wasn't in the cave, Todd had taken to wandering the halls of the manor in the wee hours, not unlike a ghost in one of the ridiculous stories Grayson kept telling. Damian had lost track of the number of times each night where the door to Grayson's room had cracked open so that Todd could peek in on his siblings. He'd heard Drake's door creaking open as well, so it was fairly obvious that Todd was checking up on them.

The older man had never spoken or entered the rooms, so Damian had simply pretended to be asleep and allowed his brother to complete his rounds in silence. He didn't know if Todd ever actually rested or if he merely wandered until exhaustion allowed him a few hours of unconsciousness, but it was hardly his place to criticize. After all, he was spending every waking moment watching over Grayson, so it would be hypocritical of him to chastise Todd for the same tendencies.

It was better to pretend not to notice.

Drake interrupted Damian's musings. "I just keep thinking about him at the warehouse … the look on his face before he ran, you know? He looked so lost, like he'd done all that to keep us safe and then was completely horrified."

"He shouldn't have worried about our reactions. It's no secret that he's capable of extreme violence," Damian pointed out.

"That's not what I mean. It was more than just him worrying if we'd lecture him or Bruce would disown him or something; it was more visceral than that. That drug really messed with his head and I think he's having trouble finding his way back."

Damian took a moment to consider Drake's words. Todd's reaction at the warehouse had troubled him, too, but he had assumed it was due to the rather excessive body count and Todd's uncertainty regarding Batman's reaction to said carnage. When Father had returned to the cave hours later with Todd unconscious in his arms, there had been nothing to indicate any forthcoming punishments or lectures. Every aspect of Father's bearing had shown nothing but concern for Todd's well-being. He had refused to leave the medical bay while Pennyworth saw to Todd's care, and the deep worry he had for the injured man was evident in his tense posture and clenched jaw.

It certainly hadn't been the reaction of a man looking to disown anyone, and that had assured Damian that Todd would face no unjust consequences from his actions. That, as well as the fact that Father and Todd had been working closely together ever since, had Damian wholly convinced that Father was willing to overlook the deaths due to Todd's drugged condition at the time. With that being the case, Todd should have bounced back with his typical aplomb.

Now that Drake mentioned it, the fact that he hadn't was highly unusual.

Clearly, there was more going on than Damian had originally considered. "He isn't under the influence of the drug anymore. Father has tested him extensively and Pennyworth assured me that his system is clear."

"So, it's something else," Drake said. "Something has him on edge and hiding out from us. We need to figure out what that is."

Damian let out a small scoff. "It isn't as though he's going to simply discuss his emotional state with us."

More importantly, Damian wasn't certain he wanted to discuss emotions with _anyone_ , particularly Todd. 

"It doesn't change the fact that he saved us and now he's suffering for it," Drake pointed out. "We owe it to him to figure out what's wrong and help him through it."

"That sounds more like Grayson's area of expertise," Damian admitted.

Drake glanced at their sleeping sibling pointedly. "I don't know that he's going to be up to any deep and meaningful discussions anytime soon."

"He's getting better. When he's on his feet again, he will hug Todd into submission."

"Most likely," Drake agreed with a small laugh. "Maybe that's why he's hanging out here; he's planning to snag a hug when Jason finally gets kicked out for the night."

Damian arched an eyebrow in surprise. "You think he's waiting for Todd?"

"Anyone coming from the cave has to pass this room on their way out, so it makes sense. He may be sleeping on the job, but if Dick's in here, then he's definitely on a stakeout. That couch sucks."

It made sense and Damian felt a hint of embarrassment that he hadn't even considered the proximity to the cave entrance when contemplating the reasons Grayson had chosen this particular sitting room. He could only blame his tired mind for so much.

"It's as good a plan as any, I guess," Drake continued. "Unless you want to give it a go? Feel like heading down to the cave and hugging Jason before he can hide? Or punch you in the face?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Damian scoffed. He paused for a moment as an idea came to him. Inspiration hit him like a second wind, pulling his brain out of its tired fog as he grasped at the threads of a plan. He had been right; this was a problem he could fix. "Besides, if you're determined to bludgeon Todd with brotherly affection, there are safer methods than seeking him out. The best way to catch Todd unawares would be to simply allow him to come to us."

Drake's forehead creased again. "But, that's the problem; he _isn't_ coming to us."

"Not when we're awake." Damian let himself smile at Drake's confused expression. "Perhaps a stakeout isn't the answer here … what we need is an ambush. And I know just where to lay the trap."

* * *

To be continued …


End file.
